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OUR 

BEST SOCIETY 





G. P. PUTNAM S SONS 

NEW YORK. AND LONDON 

XTbe Iknicfeerbocfeer press 
1905 

C/j • 


j rHE U8RAHVOF 
OONGRFSS 

{wo Gooses sicctiivdtf 

OCT, 5 1905 



Qom/rwM Entrv 

Oor. V. iq 0<r 

01/188 CL AXc. I 

I xi % FI 


Copyright, 1905 
BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 



0 c 

t * A 




Ubc Ikntcfterbocfeer Press, Hew JjJorft 


CONTENTS 




CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Our Domestic Peace is Broken i 

II. — On the Brink of Society ii 

III. — We Dine with the Van Zandts . . 21 

IV. — We Attend Lily Valentine’s First 

Night 41 

V. — I Meet the Great Dramatist . . 62 

VI. — The Difficulties of Being a Hero . 73 

VII. — The Scenario is Written ... 87 

VIII. — We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager . 113 

IX. — Walter Hart Entertains Us . . 135 

X. — An Outing in the Country . . 157 

XI. — Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal . 169 

XII. — Our Return to New York . . 188 

XIII. — A Glimpse of Letty’s Home Life . 200 

XIV. — Miss Valentine Becomes Business- 

like 215 

XV. — We Attend the Horse Show . .228 

XVI. — Teddy Plays the Host . . 243 

iii 


IV 


Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVII. — A Lively House Party . .254 

XVIII. — An Early Matinee . . . 265 

XIX. — The Morning After . . . 280 

XX. — Mrs. Henderson Meets the Situ- 
ation ..... 290 

XXI. — Teddy Makes Another Appeal . 301 

XXII. — Monty Grows Reminiscent . 306 

XXIII. — Our Play Marches . . .312 

XXIV. — An Unconventional Meeting . 321 

XXV. — We Finish Our Task . . . 330 

XXVI. — Lily Valentine Has Troubles . 337 

XXVII. — Some First-Night Agitations . 347 

XXVIII. — A Few Solutions . . . 357 


OUR BEST SOCIETY 























































































OUR BEST SOCIETY 


CHAPTER I 


OUR DOMESTIC PEACE IS BROKEN 

LICE looked up from the typewriter where she 



f~\ was copying my story. “It does seem like 
a good chance, does n’t it?” she said. 

“What?” I asked, turning from the page I had 
been correcting with my pen. Alice has a curious 
habit of blurting out things. 

“Mrs. Van Zandt’s invitation, of course.” 

“ I had forgotten it.” I returned to my revising. I 
enjoy revising my work when it has been typewritten: 
it almost seems as if it had been done by some one 
else. 

By my tone I had tried to convey that the subject 
was closed; but Alice frequently ignores those little 
messages. 

“Your experience thus far has been limited,” she 
went on, pretending to pore over my manuscript. 


“How?” I asked. 


i 


2 


Our Best Society 


“Socially,” she replied with patient conciseness. 
“The Van Zandts know everybody.” 

“Then they must waste a lot of time,” I retorted. 

“Everybody worth knowing.” Now you can’t 
keep on writing about literary people. They are 
not especially interesting anyway — in books.” 

I put down my pen. “What is it you are driving 
at?” 

“I am trying to make you see that we ought to go 
to the Van Zandts’ dinner-party.” 

Alice turned to the machine. For several minutes 
I listened to the rapid clicking of the keys. Alice and 
I never quarrel ; but occasionally we do have subtle 
jars. They seem to me one of the most terrible re- 
finements of civilisation. 

At last I exclaimed: “Now don’t be silly.” 

Alice stopped writing at once. She looked at me 
with astonishment in her face. “I don’t know what 
you are talking about.” 

“ I see that you want to go to that dinner. I don’t 
want to go. But if you insist, I will go,” I conceded. 

Alice started to turn back to the typewriter; but 
she checked herself. “I really don’t care about it at 
all, Edward. But I ’ve been thinking lately that the 
life we lead here is very limited.” 

“It suits me all right,” I replied, folding my hands 
behind my head. 

“It’s pleasant enough; but it doesn’t give you 
any material.” 

“I hate this continual looking for material. If I 
did it all the time, I ’d never get any rest. Thank 
Heaven, I ’m not one of those fellows that carry their 


Our Domestic Peace is Broken 


3 


work round in their heads. I should think they ’d 
go mad.” 

“With a good many of them it ’s a pose,” Alice 
acknowledged. 

Suddenly it occurred to me to ask: “Are n’t you 
satisfied with this little apartment? ” 

“You know I love it!” Alice indignantly exclaimed. 

“So do I. And I love it all the more because it ’s 
in the slums.” 

“But it is n’t in the slums, Edward.” 

“It ’s so near there ’s not much difference.” 

“We are just around the corner from Second 
Avenue, and some very nice people live there.” 

“Why should we care whether we live near nice 
people or not? The people that we like come here 
to see us. If they did n’t like us, too, they would n’t 
take the trouble to travel ’way down to Twelfth 
Street.” 

“The Van Zandts live downtown, you know,” 
Alice went on, “in Washington Square. It would 
be convenient for us to go.” 

“Carriage?” I asked almost in a whisper. 

“No!” Alice exclaimed. 

“Walk?” 

“Certainly, — er — that is, if you like.” 

The moment of hesitancy alarmed me. “But it 
would be such a bore. I could n’t do any work the 
next morning.” 

Alice rested her hands on the table, the fingers 
wide apart. She stared at them for a long time. 
“Have you ever read the Potiphar Papers, Edward?” 

“By George William Curtis? Of course I have.” 


4 


Our Best Society 


“ Do you know what I think would be fine ? ” Alice 
drew her fingers together and separated them again. 

“What?” 

“To do something like what he did in those 
papers.” She looked up into my face and smiled. 
“You look a little like Curtis as he was at your 
age.” 

I turned away impatiently. 

“You do really. Haven’t you ever seen his pic- 
ture as a young man? He used to let his hair fall 
over his forehead just as yours does.” 

I resisted the impulse to brush back my hair. 

“He was poor like you, too.” 

I leaned forward and, before Alice realised what I 
was going to do, I gave her a kiss. “Poor!” I 
exclaimed. 

Then Alice drew her chair nearer. 

“It really is a splendid chance. Why, there are 
plenty of people here in New York who would crawl 
to Washington Square on their hands and knees to 
attend one of Mrs. Van Zandt’s dinner-parties. And 
to think that they should come ’way down here to 
call on us!” 

“They did it just because Mrs. Van Zandt took a 
fancy to you.” 

Alice shook her head. 

“Why, then?” 

“Because I am married to you — because you are 
a personage now, Ned.” 

“You know perfectly well that she was nice to you 
at Narragansett, before you married me. She used 
to take you out driving every day.” 


Our Domestic Peace is Broken 5 


“That was because she was bored. I was a fresh 
interest. But she ’d never have found me inter- 
esting in New York. It ’s you she ’s after, Ned, and 
we must go.” 

“But the damage!” I lamented. 

“It won’t cost anything.” 

“We ’ll have to ask them to dine with us.” 

“They won’t come. Besides, they wouldn’t ex- 
pect it.” 

“Then they are not receiving us on terms of 
equality. They want to patronise us.” 

“How foolish you are, Ned! Can’t you see they ’ll 
feel honoured by your consenting to come?” 

“My consenting?” I asked, bewildered. 

“The other people will be glad to see you. Of 
course, they ’ll all have read your book.” 

“Why ‘of course’?” 

“Because, after we accept, Mrs. Van Zandt will 
let them know you ’re coming, and they ’ll all rush 
off and get the book.” 

“From the libraries,” I grunted. 

“ Those people don’t bother to go to libraries. 
When they want a thing they never wait for it. They 
just send some one to buy it. That ’s the beauty of 
being acquainted with them. They meet so few 
authors that they never think of asking for auto- 
graph copies.” 

“Expecting to get them for nothing,” I added. 

“Really, it ’s very important that we should go to 
the Van Zandts’,” Alice continued briskly, as if the 
matter were settled. “We ’ll meet people who will 
ask us to their houses, and we ’ll see something of 


6 


Our Best Society 


the great world. Then you can write about it. So 
few authors know society as it really is — especially 
among the younger writers.” 

“My dear, you are becoming terribly commercial.” 

“One has to be commercial in New York,” Alice 
replied gayly, “even when one is married to a literary 
man.” 

During the next few moments Alice busied herself 
with her copying. But I knew that she would speed- 
ily return to the discussion. Finally she said: “Of 
course, all you ’d have to do would be to wear your 
evening clothes.” 

“That dear old dress-suit!” I exclaimed. 

“It was expensive, was n’t it?” 

“Seventy-five dollars, just about twice as much 
as I could afford. But I suppose the most prudent 
man is apt to be extravagant when he ’s buying a 
wardrobe before he is married.” 

“It looks all right.” 

“Except that it ’s three years out of style.” 

“Styles don’t change in dress-suits. Besides,” 
Alice went on, inconsistently, “no one would notice 
what you wore. People never expect literary men 
to be careful about their clothes.” 

“That ’s all the more reason why I should wish to 
be careful. However, if you prefer to have me wear 
the old suit, I ’ll do it.” 

“I think you ought to have a new suit, anyway, 
Ned. Suppose you should be asked to take part in 
an Authors’ Reading? How awful it would be to 
stand up in that old thing of yours — especially when 
all the other young men whose books are having big 


Our Domestic Peace is Broken ^ 


sales would be wearing the most extravagant clothes! 
People would say your books weren’t selling.” 

'“But I can’t allow myself the luxury of a new 
dress-suit unless you get something new too,” I ex- 
claimed with a feverish haste that made me realize 
how hard it was to be heroic. 

“Oh,” Alice replied bravely, “I can fix up one of 
my old dresses, — one of those I had before I was 
married.” 

At this moment I felt a sudden depression, why, 
I cannot explain. It was followed by a violent re- 
vulsion against that dinner-party. “Alice,” I said 
earnestly, “let ’s write to the Van Zandts that we 
can’t come. It will upset all our quiet little habits. 
It will get us into a world where we don’t really be- 
long. As things are now, we have a world of our 
own, and it suits us both.” 

To my astonishment Alice looked me full in the 
face and replied: “Please don’t get into that preach- 
ing way, Ned. Of course, I am willing to give up 
the old dinner-party. But it does seem a pity that 
you should miss the chance of doing the book.” 

“Oh, hang the book! Life is more important than 
literature,” I sententiously exclaimed. 

“But if you don’t go on making literature, I don’t 
see how we can live. So far as we are concerned 
there ’s no difference between them.” 

“Well, it ’s very kind of you to call what I write 
literature, my dear girl.” 

“The only trouble with you, Ned, is that you ’re 
too literary. That ’s what I want you to know the 
Van Zandts for,” 


8 


Our Best Society 


I noticed that there was a quaver in Alice’s voice; 
but it did not prepare me for the scene that fol- 
lowed. With bewilderment I saw her face flush, 
and her eyes fill with tears. A moment later she 
had covered her face with her hands and was sobbing 
violently. 

“Oh, my poor Alice!’’ I exclaimed, and I walked 
over and put my arms around her. She drew away 
from me. At last she broke out: “You never do 
what I want you to do. Here I am, all day long, 
shut up in this old flat. You work in the morning 
and I can’t speak to you. At luncheon you are so 
tired that you have n’t a word to say. All you can 
do is eat. And then, in the afternoon, you go out to 
the club or to see editors, and you don’t get back till 
dinner-time.” 

“But our evenings, Alice,” I gasped. “Think how 
pleasant they are.” 

“After being shut up in the house all day? You ’d 
better stay at home some time and see how you ’ll 
like it then. I must have a little variety in my life. 
I ’ve always had it — till I was married — and I do get 
so sick of those literary people who come here and 
talk about themselves and about the books they 
have written or the books they ’re going to write, 
till one o’clock in the morning! I ’ve actually sat 
for hours listening to them without saying one word 
myself.” 

“That ’s because you ’re so sympathetic,” I help- 
lessly exclaimed. “It does them a lot of good to 
talk their ideas over with you. They ’ve told me 
so themselves. That ’s what most of them come for.” 


Our Domestic Peace is Broken 


9 


“But when I ’m not in the room they keep at it 
just the same ; and when a lot of them are in your 
den together it ’s a perfect struggle among them to 
see which can talk most about himself. They hate 
to hear about one another’s things.” 

“Oh, come now, Alice, I don’t think you ’re quite 
fair.” 

“You know perfectly well I ’m fair. You ’ve often 
told me I am the fairest-minded woman you ’ve ever 
known. And I ’ve heard you ridicule literary people 
for being so egotistical. But when you are among 
them, you ’re just as bad as any of them.” 

“I suppose I am,” I humbly acknowledged. 

Alice rose with quiet dignity. Her face, a moment 
before wet with tears, now gave not the slightest in- 
dication that she had been crying except that her 
eyes looked unusually bright and pretty. It is mar- 
vellous, the way she can conceal the ravages of 
grief. 

“After all, I think you are right,” she said in a low 
voice. “ When a woman marries a literary man, she 
enjoys privileges that other women can’t have. So 
she ought to be prepared to make sacrifices. I am 
sorry for what I said. Besides, I only wished to go 
to the Van Zandts’ for your sake. It would be no 
pleasure for me. But I see now that I was wrong. 
It would be giving up too much that is essential to 
your comfort.” She walked to the door leading to 
the hall. “Let us not speak of it again.” 

These words gave me a fierce desire to prolong 
the discussion; but somehow I found I could not 
move from my seat. I felt as if I had been unjustly 


IO 


Our Best Society 


convicted of an offence I could not understand. I 
knew only that it was serious. For a long time I 
smoked my pipe, glancing from time to time at 
Alice’s empty chair. I was getting a hard punish- 
ment, and I could think of no philosophy to soften 
it. It was accompanied by a consciousness, with 
which Alice alone had the power to inspire me, of 
serious trouble to come. 


CHAPTER II 


ON THE BRINK OF SOCIETY 

F OR two days Alice did not mention the Van 
Zandts’ invitation. On the second evening I 
said to her: “Have you written to those people in 
Washington Square?” 

“Not yet,” Alice replied. 

“But what will they think of us?” 

“You didn’t say anything about it.” Alice sat 
at my desk, and, taking the note-paper that she 
keeps for her special uses, she wrote rapidly. I 
looked over her shoulder and read : 

“My dear Mrs. Van Zandt: 

“It is so kind of you to ask us to dine with you, 
and we are sorry that we are engaged for the ninth 


“Alice!” 

“Well?” 

“What engagement?” 

“The usual one — to stay at home.” 

“What ’s the use of lying about it?” 

“Do you call that lying?” she asked, with a smile 
that convicted me of a long line of offences. She 
drew from her box another sheet and I watched her 
with curiosity. 


ii 


12 


Our Best Society 


“My dear Mrs. Van Zandt: 

“It is so kind of you to ask us to dine with you.” 

Alice looked up. “That isn’t quite truthful, 
either, is it, from your point of view?” 

“Well, I ’ll concede that,” I replied, waving my 
hand, and Alice began to write again. 

“But to be perfectly frank, my husband ” 

“Now, Alice!” I protested. “You know better 
than that.” 

“Than what?” she asked, biting her pen. 

“Calling me your husband. It sounds — ” I 
hesitated, and Alice supplied a word — “Common?” 

“Well, not exactly. But wouldn’t my name do 
better?” 

Alice drew in her under-lip and took a fresh sheet. 
“It is expensive knowing the Van Zandts,” she com- 
mented lightly. 

“You might practise on some of my copy -paper,” 
I growled, but Alice paid no attention. 

“My dear Mrs. Van Zandt: 

“It is so kind of you to ask us to dine with you.” 

“Before we get through,” I remarked, “Mrs. Van 
Zandt will be established in our minds as the kindest 
person in the world.” 

“But Edward ” 


she wrote. 


On the Brink of Society 


13 


“Now look here!” I said in a loud voice. “It’s 
absurd to call me Edward. She ’s never seen 
me.” 

“They all call one another by their first names.” 

“Won’t ‘Mr. Foster’ do?” 

“It would sound provincial to Mrs. Van Zandt. 
At Narragansett I once heard her ridicule some 
woman in the hotel, a ‘tradesman’s wife,’ she called 
her, for always referring to her husband as Mr. 
Smith, or whatever his old name was.” 

“Well, I ’m glad we are n’t going to have anything 
to do with people who have such silly prejudices.” 

“You have a good many yourself — just like them. 
In your stories you always call your men by their 
last names. You ’d have a fit if you discovered that 
by some slip you ’d called one of them by his first 
name.” 

“But I don’t want to seem familiar with my 
characters, or to pet them, or anything like that. I 
want to be impersonal.” 

“Well, you are, dear Ned. But that ’s a prejudice 
too. Mrs. Van Zandt thinks it ’s a silly affectation 
for a woman to call her husband by the name she ’d 
never give him if she were speaking to him.” 

“I suppose there ’s something in that,” I acknow- 
ledged, determined, if possible, to look at the matter 
in a broad way. 

“That is only one of many things you ’d learn by 
going into society. Now, if you were writing a story 
about rich people here in New York, people like the 
Van Zandts, you ’d make them write and do and say 
a great many things that they ’d positively shudder 


14 


Our Best Society 


at. That ’s why they think nearly all the society 
novels are so absurd.” 

“Write what you please,” I remarked, not very 
pleasantly I ’ll admit, and Alice continued: 

“ finds it impossible to go out in the evening and keep 
on with his literary work.” 

“Now I can’t have that!” 

Alice placed another sheet on the blotter. “Very 
well, you dictate the letter and I ’ll write it.” 

“It ’s absurd, dragging in my business. It ’s sim- 
ply brag.” 

“Dictate and I ’ll write,” Alice commanded. 

“My dear Mrs. Van Zandt,” I said, trying to keep 
my temper. The effort produced an explosion. 
“You and your damned old dinner can go to the 
devil.” 

Alice brushed back her hair to indicate how sorely 
tried a woman she was. “You might be sensible,” 
she remarked with a simulation of divine patience. 

“I am willing to go to the dinner,” I finally heard 
myself saying, in a voice utterly unlike my own. 

Alice did not reply. 

“I will do anything,” I exclaimed desperately, “to 
put an end to this situation.” 

“Who created it?” Alice asked, without moving. 

“I suppose you think I did,” I challenged. But 
Alice was in too heroic a mood to heed. 

“I am willing to take all the blame,” she said. 
“ I ought to have known better than to aspire to any- 
thing outside of our routine.” 

I sat at the table and seized a sheet of paper. It 


On the Brink of Society 


15 


was my turn now to be silent. When I had finished 
writing I tossed the sheet over to Alice, feeling that I 
had made a masterly stroke. 

“That won’t do at all,” she said wearily. 

“Why not?” 

“It would be insulting to treat Mrs. Van Zandt in 
that impersonal way, after she took the trouble to 
send me a nice note.” Alice smiled faintly, and I 
reached over for the sheet and read aloud: 

“ ‘Mr. and Mrs. Edward Foster accept with pleas- 
ure Mrs. Nicholas Van Zandt ’s kind invitation for 
dinner on the ninth of this month.’ ” 

I shook my head despairingly. “It sounds to me 
terribly correct.” 

“That ’s the trouble,” Alice remarked with easy 
authority. 

“As if we could be too correct with those people!” 

“Dear Ned, that shows how simple you are. It 
also shows that you have n’t caught their tone. 
But, of course, how could you ? ” she went on laughing. 

“I would n’t be so superior if I were you, just be- 
cause I ’d rubbed up against people like the Van 
Zandts for a few weeks at a summer hotel.” 

Alice, as I at once perceived, felt so secure in her 
advantage that she would not take offence. In the 
most cheerful manner she drew another sheet from 
her box of note-paper and, as she wrote, I looked 
over her shoulder. 

“Dear Mrs. Van Zandt: 

“Your dear little note must have come just after 
Edward and I left for the country and we have just 


i6 


Our Best Society 


returned to find it waiting for us. It will give us 
both great pleasure to dine with you on the ninth. 

“Sincerely yours, 

“Alice Foster.” 

“Whew!” I said, and Alice took up an envelope 
and wrote the address. 

“It is much less deceitful to tell a whopper than 
to twist the truth,” Alice remarked indifferently. 
“Now,” she went on, “please drop this in the box at 
once, Edward. It ’s dreadful to think that we ’ve 
kept Mrs. Van Zandt waiting so long.” 

I walked down the stairs, feeling a strange heavi- 
ness of body. I wondered vaguely if men usually 
knew when they were henpecked. As I was about to 
drop the letter into the box, it occurred to me that 
dropping or not dropping the letter might change the 
whole course of my life. How often had I observed 
that great issues were directed by the most trifling 
causes! After going out in the chilly autumn night, 
however, it seemed easier to drop the letter than not 
to drop it. 

As soon as I returned to the apartment, Alice 
threw her arms around my neck. “ I knew you hated 
the thought of going and you did it just for me. But 
we shall get heaps of material — heaps.” 

“That ’s an awful way of looking at the matter,” 
I replied, gloomily. “It seems like spying.” 

“Then a writer is spying all the time.” 

“And I often feel uncomfortable about it.” 

“But think of all the good it does. Think of all 
your books teach. Have n’t you always said that a 
story was valuable only so far as it gave a criticism 


i7 


On the Brink of Society 

of life and helped people to understand life better and 
to live better. That ’s what your books do.” 

“Oh,” I lamented, “I sometimes think it would be 
better to join the Salvation Army at once!” 

“Then you ’d never reach the rich,” Alice gleefully 
remarked. “It ’s just your luck to be one of the few 
who are able to help the poor millionaires.” 

“When is the old dinner?” I asked, less for the 
sake of securing the information than to show that I 
still felt ugly. 

“Just a week from to-night,” Alice replied. 

I have reason to recall this answer. It stands for 
a lost week in our life. I wonder if all people have 
similar periods. I know that all writers do. Every 
morning when I went to my desk the thought of that 
dinner-party would keep me for a long time from 
getting to work. When, finally, I did succeed in 
making a start, it would be unsatisfactory, and I 
would tear up what I had written, only to sit in de- 
spair and make another futile attempt. Then, too, 
Alice would do what she had never done before — 
burst in and interrupt me on every occasion to dis- 
cuss the same subject, her clothes. On the day after 
we accepted the invitation she went straight to the 
dressmaker’s. I might as well confess that on the 
same day I conferred with my tailor. I tried to face 
the situation heroically; we must do the right thing, 
no matter what the cost might be. Not for one 
moment did I lose my temper, and as for Alice, she 
had the serenity of one whose ways were busy enough 
to create a sense of importance. It was not until, 
in an absent-minded way, she asked me if I had 


i8 


Our Best Society 


ordered the carriage, that I became really aroused to 
what we were doing. I was astonished when I heard 
myself saying, as if some one inside of me had spoken : 
“Shall we have two horses and an outrider?” 

“We ’ll have a coup6,” said Alice. 

“Not a brougham?” I asked, merely to go on 
being sarcastic. 

From that moment until we entered the coup6, 
there was a coldness between Alice and me. I believe 
that no one else would have noticed it. In fact, we 
seemed unusually considerate of each other and 
affectionate. But, somehow, it was a painful time. 
I felt relieved when I saw Alice seated beside me as we 
whirled up the street. Suddenly my hand stole to- 
ward hers. In response to my pressure, she gave a 
quick little squeeze. 

“Do you think it ’s been worth while?” I asked, 
and she replied, her eyes filling with tears: 

“You have n’t said one word about my gown.” 

“All your gowns seem beautiful t6 me,” I said, 
and, as I spoke, I realised that I was literary rather 
than truthful. I occasionally find literature getting 
into my speech just as in daily life actors impersonate 
characters they have played. 

“I don’t believe you’ve noticed the gown.” 
Alice kept her eyes fixed on the carriage window. 
“I just walked around the room, hoping you ’d 
speak of it. You were so mean that I would n’t 
tell you what I thought of your dress suit.” 

“That was because I was nervous, dear. I was 
afraid of being late. You know I love you in those 
white fleecy things. And it ’s so simple, too.” 


19 


On the Brink of Society 

“It ’s the first low-necked gown I ’ve had since I 
was married.” 

Alice had touched on a dangerous subject: the 
difference in her worldly condition before marriage 
and since. After a few moments an indescribable 
influence forced me to speak. 

“I should have been just as pleased if they had n’t 
cut it so low.” 

“But it is n’t much more than open at the neck.” 
Alice declared, turning her face toward me. “Wait 
till you see what the other women will wear.” 

“ I can’t see how that will help the matter.” 

Then Alice shot her keenest shaft. “It will be a 
compensation for all I ’ve gone through for you to 
attend this dinner-party if the experience will only 
make you a little less provincial.” 

I leaned back in my seat and Alice sat bolt upright. 
We did not speak again until we reached Washington 
Square; but when we started to leave the carriage 
Alice broke out: “Now you must be very careful 
about the way you behave, Ned. Don’t talk too 
much. Be reserved. They ’ll like you better. If 
you are very quiet, they ’ll think you ’re deep. And, 
above all things, don’t talk shop. If they try to 
make you do it, talk of something else. And be 
careful not to air any of your pet theories. Don’t let 
them draw you into an argument. That would be 
simply awful. Be reserved! ” she summed up. 

Before I could touch the bell, the door opened and 
we passed into the hall, the atmosphere of which, 
heavy with furnace heat and with the odor of flowers, 
seemed to smite our faces. Alice walked straight 


20 


Our Best Society 


up-stairs, and I meekly followed. There are mo- 
ments, I suppose in the lives of all married men, when 
they feel like slaves. 

Alice turned into one of the large rooms facing the 
Square, and I entered the room at the opposite side 
of the hall. 


CHAPTER III 


WE DINE WITH THE VAN ZANDTS 

I T was not until I had removed my coat in front of 
the mirror and placed it carefully on the bed, 
that I was able to take an intelligent interest in my 
surroundings. It was one of those terribly over- 
ornamented rooms characteristic of an earlier period 
in New York when taste was not the saleable com- 
modity that it has become in recent years. The walls 
were covered with a shining yellow paper — Alice has 
since told me it was satin — with a ridiculous flower- 
design. On the walls, however, were some good 
pictures — paintings, chiefly, — that is, the names 
on the frames I recognised as good. I make no claim 
to be anything of an art critic: if I had my choice, 
even with plenty of money, I would n’t have a 
painting in a gilt frame in the house. However, as 
Alice frequently remarks in my presence, that com- 
ment is of no importance. The hangings at the 
windows I liked; they were of some plain yellow 
stuff, without design, and they harmonised with the 
hue of the wall-paper. Of the furniture in the room, 
the bed interested me most. It was one of those big 
mahogany four-posters, and over the yellow silk 
coverlet had been spread a piece of filmy lace. The 
other furniture ought to have been mahogany, but 


21 


22 


Our Best Society 


it was not. It was conglomerate both as to material 
and color, and the effect, though it suggested wealth 
and an old-fashioned taste, was curiously disturbing. 
Beside the bed I noticed a table with a rack contain- 
ing books. “Ha!” I said to my. elf. “Now we 
will judge what the tastes of these rich people are 
like.” I went over to the table stealthily, as if I 
were doing something that reflected on my manners, 
and I looked over the titles of the books. They 
were all novels, two by Conan Doyle, one by Marie 
Corelli, and “When Knighthood Was in Flower.” 
I gasped and turned away. 

As I was examining the pictures, two young fellows 
came laughing up the stairs and dashed into the 
room. One was blond and rosy-cheeked and innocent- 
looking ; the other had dark, close-cropped hair and a 
small moustache over his full lips. They both glanced 
at me and then they proceeded to tear off their over- 
coats as if eager to rush down-stairs again. 

“I wonder what my fate will be to-night,” said 
the dark one. 

“I ’ll bet that I take out Letty Henderson,” the 
blond replied. “I ’ve taken her out five times in 
three weeks.” 

“Well, you ’re in luck. I haven’t even seen her 
for nearly a week. It looks like a conspiracy, Monty, 
your meeting her so often.” 

The pink-faced boy turned to the mirror and, 
seizing one of the silver-backed military brushes, 
proceeded to arrange his tousled hair. “Gee! I ’m 
getting thinner and thinner!” he exclaimed. “I ’ve 
lost forty pounds since I came down from the country. 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 23 


That’s three months ago. You ’re good at mathe- 
matics, Teddy. Just tell me how much longer I ’m 
likely to last.” 

Teddy looked critically at his friend. By this 
time I had assumed an attitude of absorption in 
front of one of the pictures. I admired the boys’ 
indifference to my presence. “Let me see,” said 
Teddy, “your weight last summer must have been — ” 

“One hundred and fifty-five,” Monty explained. 

“One hundred and fifty-five.” The expression of 
the dark youth’s face changed from indifference to 
amusement. 

“I ’ve lost forty pounds since then,” Monty 
repeated. 

Teddy walked toward the mirror and looked over 
Monty’s shoulder. “I don’t see how you can last 
through the winter,” he said, adjusting his white 
necktie. “It’s beautiful, though,” he went on 
reflectively, “the way you keep your complexion.” 

“That ’s hectic, the doctor says.” 

“Try another doctor,” Teddy commented. 

“Have n’t you noticed how I ’ve coughed lately?” 

“I ’ve noticed it whenever your father has been 
around. He seems to have a very draughty effect 
on you.” 

For a few moments Monty studied his face in the 
mirror. Then he suddenly burst into a spasm of 
laughter. He literally doubled up. “Say, Teddy,” 
he exclaimed, “that ’s great.” 

At this point Teddy seemed to become, so to speak, 
aware of my presence. He turned to me, smiled 
pleasantly, and said ; 


24 


Our Best Society 


“This looks like a stag-party, don’t it?” 

“ ‘ Don’t it’! ” Monty repeated, mockingly. “Teddy, 
you ’d better go back to school.’’ 

“I guess we ’re ahead of time,” Teddy remarked, 
unruffled. 

“Say, I noticed an awfully pretty girl in the other 
room,” said Monty, his blue eyes shining. 

“ What ’s she like ? ” Teddy asked. 

“Awfully pretty,” Monty repeated, “with a regular 
porcelain complexion.” 

“And porcelain teeth?” said Teddy, carelessly. 

F rom across the room I could see my face in the big 
mirror. I hoped it was the light that made it look so 
red. 

“Perhaps I shall take her out to dinner!” Monty 
exclaimed, and he began to dance about the room. 
The boys seemed to have forgotten all about me. 
“If I can get at Mrs. Van Zandt first, I’ll ask her to 
let me!” 

“Who the deuce can she be?” Teddy asked, and 
then his eyes fell on me. I looked at him, wondering 
if he would have wit enough to realize the situation. 
But he only said : “ Did you come alone, sir ? ” Being 
addressed as “sir” made me feel suddenly old. 

“No, I came with my wife,” I replied, with as 
much dignity as I could achieve. 

The two boys looked at each other and then they 
laughed aloud, the idiots! Teddy turned to me 
again. “We must seem beastly rude. But, of 
course, we did n’t mean anything.” 

“Of course not,” I replied with a smile, but feeling 
somehow at a disadvantage. I walked toward the 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 25 


door and in one comer of the mirror I could see the 
boys exchanging glances. 

In the hall I met two ladies, one young and the 
other not so young, standing in their wraps, and talk- 
ing and laughing. They had either come in together 
or they had met at the door. Alice was nowhere in 
sight. A handsome man in a long black coat came up 
the stairs and passed me. From the dressing-room I 
could hear the laughter of the two boys. Still Alice 
did not come. I began to fear that something had 
happened to her. The boys passed me and, uncon- 
scious of my presence, ran gaily down the stairs. 
After a few moments, Alice burst into the hall. I use 
that word because it is the only word that describes 
the effect on me. I had never seen her look so pretty. 
Her eyes shone, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips 
were parted in one of her radiant smiles. And as for 
her gown ! In our little apartment it had not seemed 
so remarkable. But here! 

“Well!” she said, laughing, when I had stepped 
forward to meet her. 

“I thought you’d gone away on the fire-escape!” 
I whispered. 

As we entered the drawing-room Mrs. Van Zandt 
came up to us. “Oh, Mrs. Foster,” she said, with 
the air of surprise that so many women adopt when 
they greet people whom they have been expecting to 
see. “I’m delighted that you could come.” Then 
Mrs. Van Zandt turned to me and, before Alice could 
present me, she offered her hand. “It’s so good of 
you to consent to be frivolous for a time, Mr. Foster.” 

Mrs. Van Zandt had one of those pretty faces that 


26 


Our Best Society 


easily assume an artificial smile, giving a general 
assent to everything in the world. Beneath her air 
of good humor and ease I detected a nervous appre- 
hension. As she turned to us she had looked ex- 
tremely pretty and young; but after she began to 
move her head, with the swiftness of the alert host- 
ess, I saw that she had reached the terrible age when, 
with every change of light, beauty betrays the marks 
of time. At one moment she appeared to be about 
thirty -two; at another, it would have been kind to 
call her forty. 

“Oh, there is some one here who wants to meet 
you,” said Mrs. Van Zandt, glancing at Alice and 
then letting her eyes roam over the room. 

“To meet meV ’ said Alice. “Who in the world 
can want to meet me ? I’mso used to being my hus- 
band’s wife,’’ she went on vaguely, and, to my great 
relief, Mrs. Van Zandt suddenly broke away from us. 
Alice is continually pretending that she plays second 
fiddle to me. 

For a few moments Alice and I stood together. It 
was a curiously embarrassing position: we really felt 
awkward in each other’s presence. 

“Hideous house!’’ Alice said in a low voice. “As 
they only rent it for the winter, I suppose they did n’t 
want to take the trouble to refurnish. But this 
drawing-room isn’t so bad,’’ she conceded. “It’s 
not overcrowded, at any rate, like so many New York 
drawing-rooms, and those red damask hangings are 
stunning.’’ 

At sight of Mrs. Van Zandt approaching, with 
little Monty following, we instinctively drew away 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 27 


from each other. I call Monty little because he gave 
me the impression of littleness; as a matter of fact 
he was somewhat taller than I was myself, and his 
slimness made him look extremely graceful in his 
evening clothes. Mrs. Van Zandt introduced him to 
us as Mr. Dyer. As soon as she had spoken his name, 
he burst into a loud roar. 

“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed, and I noticed his voice 
seemed several degrees deeper than it had been up- 
stairs. “That ’s an awfully good joke on your 
husband.” 

“What is?” Alice asked. 

“Why, the way I talked about you before him. I 
guess he wanted to punch my head off.” 

“Oh, no!” I replied, with noble carelessness. 

Mrs. Van Zandt rested her hand on my arm and 
walked forward toward a handsomely dressed woman 
with an extremely plump and graceful neck, which 
she was not afraid of displaying. 

“Mrs. Eustace, I know you love clever people,” 
she said and, as she mentioned my name, I bowed 
low, wondering, as I often do at such moments, why 
we poor literary men should so persistently be treated 
as fools. 

“Are you really clever?” said Mrs. Eustace indif- 
ferently, looking into my face. Her eyes were fine 
and dark, and she had a clear, open forehead. She 
had the beauty, too, that comes less from regularity 
of feature than from perfect health and poise. She 
must have been about Mrs. Van Zandt’s age; but she 
looked as if she had not lived nearly so long, or rather 
as if it had not been nearly so hard for her to live so 


28 


Our Best Society 


long. I could not imagine her dodging trying lights; 
with her dazzling complexion she could face a search- 
light. 

“I never know what to say when people ask me 
that,” I replied, and something in my voice or man- 
ner made Mrs. Eustace look at me sharply. 

“Then I believe you are n’t clever,” she remarked, 
with a smile that revealed large white teeth. “What 
a relief! Clever people are such bores.” 

I must have looked astonished, for she laughed in 
my face. I felt a little resentful. 

“I believe you are clever yourself,” I said. 

“Of course I’m clever. I was born so, and I’ve 
never regretted anything so much in my life. 

“There is nothing in the world so tiresome as 
cleverness. It makes people nervous. It wears them 
out trying to keep up with you, and they are always 
afraid of appearing stupid, if they miss any of your 
sallies. At dinner-parties I have seen an atmosphere 
of gloom and hate descend upon the table because 
one clever person was present. We all pretend that 
we like cleverness, you know, but we simply dread 
it,” she went on. “My cleverness has been the great- 
est curse of my life. Among other things, it has cost 
me my husband.” 

I honestly had no idea what she meant. So I pre- 
tended to accept her remark as a joke, and I laughed 
foolishly. 

“He forced me to divorce him because he could n’t 
endure my conversation. He used to say that it 
made him tired.” She hesitated, amused, I believe, 
by my astonishment. “Now I think I’ve told you 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 29 


enough about myself. From the way Mrs. Van 
Zandt introduced you, I suppose that you are some- 
body. How have you managed in so short a time?” 
Without waiting for me to answer, she went on: 

“Nick Van Zandt must have come at last. He’s 
always late.” 

“Where is he?” I asked. “I ’ve never seen him.” 

“That swarthy man over there, pulling down his 
cuffs and talking to Letty Henderson, the pale 
blonde. Is n’t she pretty?” 

There was the usual confusion and empty laughter 
over the seating of the guests, and at last we were 
adjusted in our proper places. Alice, seated beside 
Van Zandt and that insufferable Monty, was smiling 
and talking from one to the other. I felt as if I were 
miles away from her. 

“Nick Van Zandt is a very patient man,” Mrs. 
Eustace went on, keeping her voice low. “He works 
hard in his railroad office all day long and then he 
rushes home just in time to get into his tub and his 
evening clothes. You ’d really think he was enjoy- 
ing himself.” Mrs. Eustace reached for a cocktail 
that stood beside her plate. 

As I lifted my glass, I glanced toward Alice, and I 
perceived that she, too, was drinking a cocktail. 
Why this sight should have upset me I cannot ex- 
plain. At home, when we had people to dinner, she 
always drank cocktails; she had also developed skill 
in making them. She must have seen me looking at 
her, for she sent me what she calls her “conjugal 
smile,” the smile she employs when she wishes to 
let people see that we are perfectly happy, or, as I 


30 Our Best Society 

tell her, to prove that we are still on speaking 
terms. 

Within two minutes after the cocktails were drunk 
a strange thing happened. The air was cleared of 
self-consciousness and embarrassment ; every one 
appeared to be at ease. The talk, desultory and 
broken before, became general. The eyes of the 
ladies reflected the soft light of the candles; some- 
how we all seemed younger. For the first time I 
noticed how lovely and fresh were the roses banked 
in the centre of the table. A feeling of peace en- 
veloped me. I assured myself that I was at my 
best, and yet, beneath all my sense of security, a re- 
mote inner-self scrutinised everything, including my- 
self. This inner-self remained cold to the brightness 
around me, and maintained an attitude that was 
purely judicial. 

“Now you are going to tell me about yourself, 
are n’t you?” said Mrs. Eustace. 

Instantly I saw why she was so curious; she had 
recognised me as an outsider. Well, it was some- 
thing, I reflected, not to be placed in the category 
with Monty and Teddy. 

“ I am a writer,” I explained quietly. I don’t know 
why I always feel ashamed when I am called on to 
tell what I do for a living; I feel sure that doctors 
and lawyers never feel so, or even business men. 

“Ah!” Mrs. Eustace seemed relieved. She had 
catalogued me! Then she said in a matter-of-fact 
tone: “What do you write?” 

“Novels chiefly. Sometimes short stories, occa- 
sionally a magazine article.” 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 31 


“How interesting!” she exclaimed, in the tone she 
might have employed in saying, “Dear me!” Then 
she added, as she bent over her oysters: “Now you ’ll 
have to tell me your name all over again and the 
names of all your books.” 

When I had recited my rather brief list, Mrs. Eus- 
tace meditated for a long time. “I ’ve never read a 
line you’ve written!” She assumed the air of bra- 
vado that I have so often noticed in the women who 
think they are the first to make that remark to an 
author. “ I don’t read anything,” Mrs. Eustace went 
on indifferently. “The little I know I gather from 
the lectures I go to in houses, from conversations, 
and from the plays I see.” 

“From the plays?” I said. “What can you learn 
from them?” 

“Among other things, you can learn what idiots 
playwrights are!” Mrs. Eustace turned her radiant 
smile on me. “Don’t tell me you are a playwright 
among your other accomplishments.” 

“Everybody who writes is a playwright, or thinks 
he is,” I explained. “We all have plays up our 
sleeves or in our heads.” 

“Well, why in the world don’t you get your plays 
produced? I’m sure they can’t be worse than the 
plays we’ve been having this winter.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Eustace has been going to the theatre!” 
exclaimed Mrs. Van Zandt, across the table, catching 
at a topic. “Do tell us what is good.” 

“You ought to see the new comic opera at The 
Gaiety. It’s great!” cried Monty Dyer. “There’s 
a girl in it — she does n’t come on till the third act — 


32 


Our Best Society 


but she’s the whole show. I forget her name, but 
she’s wonderful. She sings an awfully funny song. 
Gee! I wish you could hear it. The words are great.” 

A silence followed, in which Monty became very 
ridiculous. I inwardly rejoiced. He evidently real- 
ised his position, for his pink face turned scarlet, and 
he turned to Alice to insist that the girl was “great.” 

“We must go and see her,” said Alice, with the 
purpose of putting the poor boy at ease. 

“Suppose we have a theatre party,” Mrs. Van 
Zandt suggested. 

“Oh, that would be ripping!” Monty exclaimed, 
plainly feeling that he had been vindicated, and be- 
coming important again. 

“We ’re going to have one theatre party next 
week,” Van Zandt said in an anxious tone. 

“Oh, yes, dear Lily Valentine is going to act in her 
new play,” his wife assented. 

“One theatre party in a week is quite enough 
for me!” Van Zandt looked around the table for 
support. 

Monty perceived that the tide had turned against 
him again. In his next remark I detected the spirit 
of compromise. “Well, then, let’s all go to see her. 
I ’d rather see her than that other woman, anyway. 
Gee! I wish I could remember her name.” 

“Monty’s bad memory is his salvation,” said Letty 
Henderson, in a sweet voice that suited her delicate 
beauty. “He’s always falling in love with actresses; 
but, after a day or so, he can’t even remember their 
names.” 

“Well, it’s understood that we are all going to see 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 33 


Miss Valentine, is n’t it ? ” said Mrs. Van Zandt. “ Let 
me count. There are nine of us here. We’ll have 
two boxes.” 

“You’ll have to hustle if you expect to get ’em for 
Lily Valentine’s first night,” said Monty. 

“The house must have been sold out already,” re- 
marked the dark-faced man whom I had seen up- 
stairs. Vaguely, through the maze of the talk, I had 
been wondering who he was. As if in response to 
my question, Mrs. Van Zandt turned to him and said : 

“When are we going to see your portrait of Miss 
Valentine, Mr. Cosgrave?” 

“Whenever you will come to my studio,” the artist 
replied, in a low, serious voice. Something about his 
voice interested me, and I observed that Alice was 
interested too. 

“Then it is finished?” Mrs. Eustace asked. 

“If a portrait is ever finished/’ Cosgrave depre- 
catingly replied. 

“Art is long! ” Monty Dyer exclaimed in a mocking 
tone, and, by his very impertinence, making every 
one laugh. 

Mrs. Eustace, turned to me again. “Now tell me 
what kind of stories you write. All about love’s 
young dream, I suppose? Or are you one of those 
people who write those absurd things that they call 
historical novels? ” 

“I don’t write historical novels and I avoid love’s 
young dream just as much as I can,” I replied. 

‘ ‘ Then what in the world is there left to write about ? ” 

“The everyday doings of everyday people.” 

“Does any one care to read such things?” 

3 


34 


Our Best Society 


“A few,” I remarked, trying to maintain an ap- 
pearance of good humour. 

“There are just two good things in life,” Mrs. Eus- 
tace went on, ignoring the trend of the talk, or wish- 
ing to avoid following it. “They are love and money. 
Love is the great illusion ; money is the great reality. 
And in the end you will find that the only permanent 
comfort can come from reality.” 

Mrs. Eustace suddenly turned and spoke to Teddy 
Markoe, who was sitting beside her. 

“Are you getting ready for the Horse Show?” she 
said. 

“Well, rather,” he replied. 

“Teddy’s going to enter three horses,” Monty 
explained. 

“I hope you ’re going to be in the old place,” said 
Teddy, addressing Mrs. Van Zandt. 

“Oh, yes. Nick has managed that. There ’s one 
thing he is really interested in. We shall be there 
every night.” 

“I’m interested in everything,” Van Zandt re- 
marked wearily. “The only trouble is, I haven’t 
two lives.” 

“No one has any time in New York,” said Mrs. 
Eustace. Then she threw a bit of bread across the 
table. “That is, no one but our painter-man over 
there. And he has time because he never does any- 
thing that he does n’t want to do.” 

“It’s very important to be selfish in this world,” 
Cosgrave remarked. “In New York it’s absolutely 
necessary. If I were n’t selfish I never should accom- 
plish anything.” 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 35 


“And no one would take any interest in you,” said 
Van Zandt, with a laugh. 

“ Exactly.” 

“Gee! I ’ve never accomplished anything,” said 
Monty, in a tone intended to reach Alice, but heard 
by every one at the table. 

“And you probably never will, Monty,” Mrs. Eus- 
tace remarked. “That ’s one reason why you are so 
amusing.” 

“Monty is going to become one of the pillars of 
our new leisure-class,” said Van Zandt. 

“Oh, I say now, this is n’t fair,” Monty exclaimed. 

“But I should like to know why Mr. Cosgrave is 
so proud of being selfish,” said Mrs. Van Zandt, to 
keep the talk general. 

“Simply because I wish to be as useful to society 
as I can be,” the painter replied. “If I paid atten- 
tion to all the claims on my time, I should simply 
dissipate myself. So I have established a system. 
A certain number of hours in the day I work. The 
rest of the time I amuse myself, for the sake of get- 
ting refreshment for my work. If I did n’t exercise 
selection in my amusements, I should be bored and I 
should get no refreshment.” 

“In other words, we amuse Mr. Cosgrave,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Eustace in a loud voice. 

The painter bowed. “You not only amuse, Mrs. 
Eustace . Y ou edify ! ’ ’ 

The talk became animated and personal, relating, 
however, wholly to people in the little social world 
to which the Van Zandts belonged. Much of it 
touched on scandals that had occurred or were likely 


36 


Our Best Society 


to occur, and to engagements that had been an- 
nounced or were about to be announced or that really 
existed, though they were strenuously and repeatedly 
denied by those concerned. Naturally, Alice and I 
had nothing to say; but I noticed that, throughout 
the ordeal, which lasted till nearly the close of the 
dinner, Alice maintained her poise; she acted as if 
she knew the people referred to, and occasionally she 
would turn to Nicholas Van Zandt and say some- 
thing that made him laugh. I felt miserably uncom- 
fortable, but I resolved not to speak; it was far more 
dignified to keep silent than to “butt in.” When, at 
last, Mrs. Van Zandt rose from the table, I could 
almost have cried out for joy ; but my spirits drooped 
again as she said : 

“I suppose you men will want to stay here and 
smoke your cigars.” 

“Then I shall stay with them!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Eustace. “I sha’n’t be cheated out of my cigar- 
ette.” 

“Let us compromise by going into the library,” 
Van Zandt suggested. 

As we crossed the hall, I seized a chance to speak 
to Alice. “Wasn’t it awful — that last half-hour?” 
I whispered. 

“You behaved splendidly,” she whispered in reply. 
“You looked so scornful.” 

“Scornful?” I repeated, amazed. 

“Just as if you refused to take part in their silly 
talk because you were superior to it. I know it im- 
pressed Mr. Van Zandt. He said some awfully nice 
things about you.” 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 37 


“Don’t you smoke!” I whispered, just as Mrs. Van 
Zandt came up to us. 

I instantly regretted having delivered that warn- 
ing. As the cigarettes were passed around, I felt 
certain that Alice would disobey me, just to be per- 
verse. With the greatest aplomb, and covertly giv- 
ing me one of her quick glances, she took a cigarette. 
To my astonishment, the pretty blonde girl smoked 
too. 

For half an hour Mrs. Van Zandt kept moving us 
about as if we were pawns on a chess-board. With 
Nicholas Van Zandt I engaged in a laboured talk of 
a few minutes, during which I managed to show how 
much I did not know about railroads. I had better 
luck with Letty Henderson, chiefly because she talked 
nearly all the time about Alice. “I ’m going to ask 
your wife to let me come to see her,” she said. “I 
want so much to know her.” Perhaps another reason 
why I liked her was because she actually knew about 
my writing. She had read one of my stories and she 
thought it was “lovely,” all but the ending. Then, 
of course, I had to explain my theory about unhappy 
endings. “You see, the great thing is to make people 
talk about what you have written. If you just please 
them with a story, they ’ll forget all about it. But 
if you first please them, and then pique them at the 
end, they ’ll argue about it.” She explained that she 
had never looked at it in that way before and it was 
“certainly very interesting.” “But, do you know,” 
she remarked innocently, “you are the first author 
I’ve ever met? Isn’t it strange? I know ever so 
many painters, like Mr. Cosgrave. They seem to 


38 Our Best Society 

have more time to go about in society than authors 
do.” 

“I should think they would have less time,” I said. 

“Why?” she ingenuously asked, fixing her appeal- 
ing eyes on my face. 

“Because their working hours are so much longer.” 

She clasped her hands as if I had said something 
deeply impressive. 

“Are they, really?” 

“Most of the painters that I know work all day 
long. But the writers never work more than three 
or four hours a day.” 

“How strange! What an easy time they must 
have!” 

“Not so easy. It’s desperate business, writing. 
After three or four hours of writing I always feel 
played out.” 

“Fancy!” she murmured sympathetically. Then 
she added: “But most of the artistic people I know 
are portrait painters. I suppose they have plenty of 
time because they can work only when people are 
sitting to them. And it bores people so dreadfully 
to sit. All my friends hate it.” 

At this moment Mrs. Van Zandt’s manoeuvring 
sent Mr. Cosgrave in our direction. “Perhaps you 
can tell us why painters go into society more than 
writers do,” I remarked. 

“It ’s just a matter of business,” he replied with a 
knowing smile. “They are on the watch for people 
to victimise.” 

“Oh, how mercenary!” said Miss Henderson. 

“Of course; we are all mercenary,” Cosgrave 


We Dine with the Van Zandts 39 


went on. “Or, rather, we all have some axe to 
grind.” 

Miss Henderson pretended to be shocked. “ That ’s 
a dreadful way of looking at things.” 

Cosgrave turned to me. “Everything can be re- 
duced to business, can’t it, Mr. Foster? Now I’ll 
venture to say that Foster has been making mental 
notes about us all the evening. That’s why he’s 
been so quiet.” 

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, with fervent virtue. 

“I won’t believe it of him!” said Miss Henderson, 
giving me one of her appealing glances. 

Cosgrave threw back his shoulders defiantly. 
“Now I’ve found an ideal subject to-night.” 

“Oh, I know,” said Miss Henderson. “I knew it 
the very moment I saw you meet her. It made me 
jealous.” 

“I’ve been trying for two years to persuade Miss 
Henderson to sit to me,” the painter explained. 

“But I never have any time, Mr. Cosgrave.” 

Cosgrave ignored the remark. He had the air of 
the man who is perfectly aware of what he wants and 
is not afraid to ask for it. “Your wife told me to 
consult you when I asked her to pose.” 

I heard myself laughing nervously. “ She was just 
pretending that she did n’t have her own way about 
everything.” 

Miss Henderson saw Mrs. Van Zandt walking 
toward us. “It ’s really time for me to go, Nina,” 
she said, with her lovely smile. “I ordered the car- 
riage for ten and it’s long past that now.” 

“It was so good of you to come, dear,” said Mrs. 


40 


Our Best Society 


Van Zandt, with a readiness so free from regret that 
it seemed like an invitation to the rest of us to go, 
too. 

Alice came forward, and a moment later we were 
saying good -night. 

As soon as I entered the carriage and had banged 
the door behind me, I sank back into the seat. 

“It was hard for you, dear, was n’t it?” said Alice, 
tenderly. 

“How about you?” I asked, taking her hand. 

“Well — ’’ She hesitated. “You know that say- 
ing of Goethe’s you are always quoting: ‘Every be- 
ginning is hard.’ ’’ 

“But it won’t seem so hard if it’s the end too.’’ 

“Oh, but, dearest, we’re committed now. Of 
course, we shall have to go to Miss Valentine’s first 
night. That will be really worth while. Mrs. Van 
Zandt spoke of it just as I was leaving.’’ Then Alice 
suddenly changed the subject. “Wasn’t Mrs. Eus- 
tace nice? I had such a good talk with her. She’s 
coming to see me.’’ 

“She’s a divorced woman.’’ 

“Well, naturally,’’ Alice replied in a tone of injury, 
“I know that. The papers were full of it two years 
ago. That is why she is so defiant about it. I sup- 
pose she informed you herself.’’ 

“Well, don’t tell me the details.” 

“I won’t, dear,” Alice replied in her most patient 
manner. “I won’t, until you ask for them.” Then 
she went on cheerfully: “Still, being divorced is 
really ceasing to be a distinction in New York.” 


CHAPTER IV 


WE ATTEND LILY VALENTINE’S FIRST NIGHT 

T HE next day Alice rose early. Staying up late 
makes her remarkably bright at breakfast. 
As I dragged myself to the table, she looked at me 
sympathetically : 

“You poor dear!” she said. 

“There must be something the matter with my 
nervous system,” I remarked. “It’s no use: I can- 
not dissipate. I have to spend a quiet evening to 
get my nerves soothed for rest.” 

“But it was such a mild dissipation, Edward.” 
“Well, you’re made of cast-iron, anyway.” 

The coffee stimulated me. Where Alice learned 
to make such coffee I have never been able to find 
out ; it must be a natural gift. I felt as if I had re- 
ceived an infusion of life and I believe that I should 
have gone cheerfully to my desk if Alice had not re- 
marked in a tone that fairly lilted with patronage: 
u Now you must get some good work done this morn- 
ing, Ned.” 

I cannot explain why, but the tone, rather than the 
words, took all ambition out of me. Without speak- 
ing, I rose and entered the library. I sat at my desk 
and I listlessly took a pile of blank sheets and stared 
at it. There was not an idea in my head. I glanced 


4i 


42 


Our Best Society 


over at the manuscript that stood on the little stand 
beside the typewriter: Alice ought to have had it 
copied long before ; but for a week she had not 
touched the machine. A feeling of despair over- 
whelmed me. I wished that I had never become an 
author, and I envied those men who went to business 
every day and had definite tasks which gave them 
something to work on. It was fearful to think of 
sitting at that desk morning after morning and spin- 
ning fiction out of my head. After all, what did it 
amount to? Now those people last night: if I had 
been a railroad man like Van Zandt, or even a painter 
like Cosgrave, they would have found me interesting. 
I wondered absently if I could have made a success 
in business, or if it were too late for me to try some- 
thing else besides authorship? As I sat with my 
hands resting on the blotter I heard Alice approach- 
ing. I seized my pen and, as she entered, I pretended 
that I was writing. 

“Busy?” she said in a tone of self-conscious cheer- 
fulness. 

“No!” I exclaimed. 

Alice walked straight out of the room. “Dear 
me!” I heard her say, “we shall die of starvation.” 

An idea suddenly occurred to me: I would write 
a sketch satirising our evening at the Van Zandts’. 
For two hours I wrote feverishly. Then I felt a hand 
stroking my head and I heard a voice whisper. 
“Good little boy.” I stopped and drew Alice down 
to me. For several moments we did not speak. 
Then I said: “Well, I guess I’ve made twenty-five 
dollars out of last night’s experience.” 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 43 

Alice shrugged her shoulders. ‘ ‘ J ust half our rent, ’ ’ 
she conceded. “But you mustn’t let yourself get 
side-tracked again. You’ve lost a day on the novel.’’ 

“I’ll do some work on it this afternoon,’’ I con- 
ceded. “Here, let me read.’’ 

Alice shook her head. “ Not a word. I must look 
after luncheon.’’ 

As I entered the dining-room, Alice was placing the 
cakes on the table. “I thought I’d help Mary out 
as much as I could to-day,’’ she said. “She’s not in 
a very amiable mood.’’ 

“Well, I haven’t been either, dear,’’ I exclaimed, 
touched by my own magnanimity. “But I feel all 
right now, and I’ve got a bird of an appetite for 
these griddle-cakes.’’ 

As soon as we had finished our meal, I found my 
pipe on the mantel, filled. I smiled, pretending that 
I did n’t know Alice was watching. As I lit the pipe, 
I said: “Isn’t it great that we can be here all day 
and have our nice luncheon together? How much 
better this is than tearing into a restaurant and tear- 
ing out again and rushing back to an office! I sup- 
pose Van Zandt does that a good part of the time.’’ 

Alice brushed a piece of lint off my arm and looked 
me over with the wife’s judicial eye. We walked to- 
gether into the living-room, where we often sit for a 
while after meals. I threw myself backward on the 
couch, and I blew the smoke from my pipe slowly 
toward the ceiling. 

“Well, there’s no place like home,” I remarked. 

“Don’t say that, Edward,” said Alice. “It’s so 
stupid and bourgeois.” 


44 


Our Best Society 


We could hear the rumbling of the elevated trains, 
and through the small, old-fashioned panes of glass 
in our windows I could see the ugly New York sky- 
line. From scores of chimneys smoke was rising. 
To the left stood the mountainous Waldorf-Astoria, 
bursting with its hordes of millionaires. 

“Let me see,” Alice remarked, apparently talking 
to herself. She hesitated. “What a nuisance!” 

I went on smoking. 

“Whom can I ask to meet Mrs. Van Zandt at 
luncheon?” 

I puffed rapidly. 

Alice looked at me and laughed. “Isn’t it a 
queer complication?” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I un- 
truthfully replied. 

“You see, I can’t ask Mrs. Eustace or Letty Hen- 
derson for two reasons: they haven’t called on me 
and they have n’t invited me to anything.” 

“In other words, as lawyers say, there’s no con- 
sideration. It’s a finely organised business, society, 
is n’t it?” 

“It’s just like our own society, Edward. We are 
always exchanging dinners with our friends.” 

This time I rose on my elbow. “And you know 
perfectly well how sick that makes me. If there’s 
any expression of yours that I hate worse than any 
other it ’s ‘ Now we ought to invite so-and-so to din- 
ner.’ There ought n’t to be any ought about it. We 
ought to ask people to dinner because we like them 
and because we want them, not because we have debts 
to pay.” 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 45 


Alice let my words echo through the room. 

“How absurd you are, Edward! In a place like 
Lumley, Wisconsin, your ideas are perfectly correct. 
There, of course, people just drop in. But in New 
York it’s altogether different.” 

“Well, I like to have people drop in.” 

“ Perhaps you would n’t like it so much if you had to 
do the housekeeping. You don’t realise that ‘ dropping 
in ’ is the horror of housekeepers, even in Lumley. It ’s 
the cause of the most dreadful domestic tragedies.” . 

“That’s simply because the housekeepers don’t 
know their business,” I said, tapping the bowl of my 
pipe with my forefinger. “Why don’t they keep 
plenty of canned food in the house. ” 

“And poison people?” 

“Better poison them than give them hospitality 
that’s insincere.” 

“Well, I don’t see what I’m to do,” said Alice, 
illogically, in order to check my flippancy. 

“Send her a meal-ticket,” I grunted. 

Alice drew her lips together. “ If people who write 
you those silly letters about your books only knew 
how you talk at home!” 

I smiled and kicked out my feet. 

“It’s really dreadful,” Alice lamented, “to think 
of the people we don’t know.” 

“And whom we’d like to invite to luncheon,” I 
went on. “That is, indeed, a tragedy. Couldn’t 
you look up some names in the society columns and 
send them circulars?” 

“Of course,” Alice went on imperturbably, “we 
can’t ask any of our friends.” 


46 


Our Best Society 


“Our friends aren’t good enough to meet Mrs. 
Van Zandt! If that isn’t a ‘roast’ on our friends! 
We don’t deserve to have any friends.’’ 

“It may be a ‘roast,’ as you say, on Mrs. Van 
Zandt,’’ Alice remarked, with a lift of her eyebrows. 
Then her face brightened. “ After all, why would n’t 
it be a good idea? We might get some of the freak 
people together.’’ 

I twisted my neck into an exceedingly uncomfort- 
able position in order to rebuke Alice with a stern 
look. “Make them ridiculous in order to amuse Mrs. 
Van Zandt! Is that the idea?” 

“They make themselves ridiculous,” Alice tersely 
remarked. As I sank back into a more comfortable 
position, she continued: “Think how Amory Lam- 
bert would love to exploit himself before Mrs. Van 
Zandt. Don’t you remember, that day we were in 
the street-car with him, how he fairly basked in the 
attention he received from the other passengers ? He 
did n’t seem to mind their laughing at him a bit.” 

“He’s cut his hair,” I said, as if this fact some- 
how discredited Alice’s remarks. 

“But his profile is still beautiful,” Alice exclaimed 
with a laugh. 

While Alice busied herself with some sewing, I lay 
on my back and sank peacefully to sleep. When I 
awoke, she was sitting in the same position, but with 
her knees covered with a yellow silk skirt. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, dreamily. 

“Making over a gown.” 

“For what?” 

“For Saturday night.” 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 47 


“Oh!” 

“Had you forgotten?” Alice began to work more 
rapidly. Without waiting for me to reply, she went 
on: “It seems a pity to commit this to an evening 
gown; but it would be foolish to try to resort to a 
makeshift. I really ought to have a new gown.” 

“What’s the matter with the gown you wore last 
night?” 

“Of course I couldn’t wear that with the same 
people.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because they’d notice.” 

“What of it?” 

“ Now, Edward, you know better. As you’ve been 
lying asleep there, I ’ve been thinking that your way 
is the best. They ’ll like us all the better if we ’re 
independent. That's what decided me to alter 
this gown, that and a suggestion I got from Letty 
Henderson’s gown last night. So it won’t cost us 
anything.” 

I pondered these remarks so long that Alice whis- 
pered: “Asleep?” 

“No.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“The complications.” 

“There can’t be any.” 

“There always are at a theatre-party. In the 
first place, there’s the hideous possibility of supper.” 

“Oh, no, we’ll come straight home.” 

“Then it’s understood that if they ask us out to 
supper, you’ll refuse?” 

“Of course.” 


48 


Our Best Society 


During the next few days I felt better, chiefly be- 
cause I accomplished a lot of work. On reading over 
the Van Zandt sketch, I had been disappointed with 
it and thrown it aside, and I had returned with zest 
to the novel. It seemed now as if I could surely get 
a big price for it as a serial, perhaps four cents a word. 
On this basis Alice and I used to count our daily 
earnings. One day, when we found I had earned 
nearly seventy-five dollars, I went out and bought 
Alice some flowers. We spent the evening consider- 
ing what we should do when we got rich enough to 
have a house of our own, and we agreed that we 
should be perfectly happy if we could have a little 
place in the country with at least one horse and a 
half-dozen dogs. 

“Not too far away, you know,” Alice said. “Per- 
haps somewhere in Westchester County, where we 
could get in and out to the theatre.” 

I shivered. “Oh, that late train! Would n’t it be 
better to go farther out and then stay in town when- 
ever we went to the theatre?” 

“Think how rich we shall be when we get our 
plays produced!” Alice said, inconsequently, clasp- 
ing her hands. 

“We’d better write them first.” 

“They say that Walter Hart makes a hundred and 
fifty thousand a year. He’s written the new play 
for Miss Valentine, you know.” 

On Saturday night Alice appeared at dinner in the 
altered gown. I should hardly have known it. It 
looked new and, as critics say of writing, it “be- 
trayed the influence” of other gowns seen at the Van 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 49 


Zandts’. Just what this influence was I could not 
describe; it was subtle, but, like all subtle things, it 
made an immense difference. Alice must have sus- 
pected what I was thinking, for she laughed know- 
ingly and said: “We must live and learn, Edward.” 

“You are a very quick study,” I remarked. 

“If anything ever happens to you, I shall set up 
shop as a fashionable dressmaker. I ’ll put out a 
nice little sign on Fifth Avenue — ‘ Mademoiselle Alice 
— Modes.’ Wouldn’t it be splendid, Ned, if you 
could have a play produced and have me mentioned 
on the programmes as the designer of the costumes?” 

The evening was so pleasant that we decided to 
walk part way to the theatre. We crossed Stuyve- 
sant Square and made our way to Fourteenth Street, 
crowded with people and brilliant with electric light 
from Tony Pastor’s and from the restaurants and 
dance-halls. That part of the town I had always 
disliked ; but I knew that Alice revelled in it. “ Is n’t 
it lovely to be right in the midst of so much wicked- 
ness!” she said. We turned into Irving Place, walk- 
ing slowly. “This is the dearest spot in the whole 
city,” said Alice. “I’d rather live here than on 
Riverside Drive. See that nice row of little brick 
houses over there. Would n’t it be splendid if we 
could only have one of those?” She sighed luxuri- 
ously. “Well, perhaps we can some day if you ’ll only 
be more industrious, Edward, — and less literary.” 

At Fourth Avenue Alice suddenly became tired 
and we boarded a cable-car. From Madison Avenue 
we had to walk, and as we approached the theatre 
we found it blocked with carriages and with a crowd 


50 


Our Best Society 


of people. As I pushed my way ahead Alice clung 
tightly to my arm. “Oh, isn’t this dreadful!” she 
gasped. “We haven’t any tickets, and suppose we 
can’t get in! Suppose we should miss them!” 

In the lobby, however, we found Monty Dyer and 
Teddy Markoe with Miss Henderson. They hailed us 
as if we were participating in a huge joke. 

“Where are the Van Zandts?” Alice asked. 

“They are always late,” Miss Henderson explained. 

“Van Zandt has to have his cigar,” said Teddy. 

“Mrs. Wainwright Smith is coming, too,” said Miss 
Henderson, as if this fact provided the cause of our 
waiting. 

“Oh, well, then, we’ll be lucky if we get in before 
the second act,” cried Monty. “She’s probably din- 
ing with the Van Zandts, and they’ll have to bind 
and gag her to make her stop talking and to get her 
out of the house.” 

At that moment the Van Zandts appeared accom- 
panied by a bright-eyed little woman with gray hair 
and a face that somehow seemed youthful without 
really being youthful. “Well, we’ve nearly broken 
our necks to get here,” the little woman exclaimed, 
glancing from Letty Henderson to the two boys. 
When Mrs. Van Zandt had presented Alice and me, 
Mrs. Smith went on: “ I gave my word to Lily Valen- 
tine that I ’d be here before the curtain went up. If 
I’m not, she’ll never forgive me.” 

“Then you ’d better give the tickets for the other box 
to Monty, dear,” said Mrs. Van Zandt to her husband. 
“You young unmarried people,” she went on lightly, 
“are to go with Mrs. Eustace and Mr. Cosgrave.” 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 51 


I saw Monty’s face droop, and for a moment an 
expression that was positively wicked appeared in 
Teddy’s dark eyes. 

“ Have we got to wait for them ? ” Monty asked with 
boyish ruefulness, and Teddy at once replied: 

“Here — I ’ll take Letty into the box and you bring 
Mrs. Eustace and Cosgrave along when they come.” 

“That will be splendid,” said Mrs. Van Zandt, 
with a humorous appreciation of Teddy’s nerve. 

But Letty Henderson protested. “I don’t mind 
waiting,” she explained. 

“Now, my child, don’t make the situation dif- 
ficult,” said Mrs. Smith, with the authority of a 
veteran. “There ’s no knowing when those silly, mid- 
dle-aged people will get here. They are both terrible 
dawdlers. Besides, Lily Valentine won’t want the 
box to be empty when the curtain goes up. So come 
along,” she added, starting for the entrance-gate. 
“It will do Monty good to wait.” 

“Well, give Lily a good hand in case I’m not there 
when she comes on,” Monty called after us. 

I noticed that Letty Henderson seemed confused 
and I wondered why. Mrs. Van Zandt, too, showed 
apprehension in her face. Alice afterward explained 
that Letty objected to being seen in the box with 
Teddy without a chaperon and that Mrs. Van Zandt 
did not have presence of mind enough to meet the 
situation. It happened, however, that the two 
boxes were adjoining, and Van Zandt, after seeing us 
settled in our box, stepped out and took a place 
beside Miss Henderson. 

The curtain had not yet risen and the orchestra 


52 


Our Best Society 


was noisily playing. The seats were nearly all filled ; 
a crowd of men stood at the back. Most of the other 
boxes were occupied, the women who sat in front 
creating a curious effect of bare shoulders, feathers, 
and white gloves. For a few moments we surveyed 
the house, all green and gold, with meaningless 
and fantastic ornamentation. Mrs. Smith, plainly a 
woman of quick impressions, drew her lips together 
and addressed us in a low voice: “ Jewy.” 

We all smiled; but no one spoke. “Isn’t it ex- 
traordinary,” Mrs. Smith went on, “the way the Jews 
are running this town? Why, they control all our 
theatres.” 

“They are an extraordinary people,” said Van 
Zandt, less for the purpose of being trite, as Alice 
would say, than for the sake of giving Mrs. Smith’s 
comment civil attention. “I hate to get up against 
them in business.” 

“They don’t leave anything for anybody else,” 
Mrs. Smith broke out. “But Lily says they are 
paying her splendidly. This year they are going to 
give her five hundred dollars a week and a percentage 
of the receipts. Upon my word, I’m almost sorry 
I ’m not an actress myself. I ’ve a good mind to ask 
Lily for an engagement.” 

“Mrs. Smith discovered Miss Valentine,” said Mrs. 
Van Zandt, turning to Alice, as if afraid we might be 
misled by the vivacious lady’s talk. 

“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Smith. “I 
did n’t discover her. That is,” she explained, depre- 
catingly, “I never did anything for her as an actress. 
I met her one day at the Howlands’, They’re some 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 53 

dear friends of mine, newspaper people that I met 
one winter in the South. They are fond of actors 
and Bohemians of all kinds. I love to go to see 
them. Lily was the prettiest creature — she must 
have been about seventeen then. They told me she 
was an actress, the daughter of old Tom Valentine, 
who used to be a stage-manager or something of the 
sort in New York. Well, I nearly fainted away when 
I heard that this chit of a girl had been on the stage 
for three years. She did n’t have any position then 
— it seems to me, from what Lily says, that most of 
them are out of positions half the time — and she was 
dreadfully poor. Well, I had a good talk with her 
and I liked her so much that I asked her to come and 
see me. Then that summer she stayed with me for 
a few weeks in my place at Narragansett, and we ’ve 
been great friends ever since.” 

“Mrs. Smith is leaving out the most important 
part,” interposed Mrs. Van Zandt. “She intro- 
duced Miss Valentine to every one in New York who 
could help her. That is what has made her advance 
so rapidly.” 

“Well, to be perfectly frank, I often wonder what 
it is that has made Lily do so well. It must be her 
looks. I often say to her: ‘Lily, I love you, but I 
don’t think you can act for two cents.’” 

“How does she like that?” I ventured to ask. 

“Oh, she takes anything from me,” Mrs. Smith 
replied. Then her eyes roamed over the house. 
“ But is n't this a monstrosity? Poor Lily told me to 
be prepared for the worst. ‘ I like it,’ she said. ‘ It ’s 
just my idea of what a theatre ought to be. But I 


54 


Our Best Society 


know you’ll hate it.’ In some ways Lily has the 
most awful ideas.” 

“Don’t you think people get queer ideas by living 
so much in the theatre?” asked Mrs. Van Zandt, 
with an air of expressing an absolutely new thought. 

“Queer?” Mrs. Smith rolled her eyes. “That 
child fairly flabbergasts me sometimes by the things 
she says. Upon my word, I feel like an infant beside 
her. She can talk as if she were about ninety, and 
then she can suddenly relapse into an innocence that 
fairly takes my breath away.” Her eyes turned 
toward the auditorium again. “But why don’t our 
architects build at least one decent-looking theatre 
in New York?” 

“It seems to me that most people are way off the 
track in their idea of what a theatre ought to be,” I 
remarked. 

“Do tell us what your idea is,” Mrs. Van Zandt 
urged. 

Now this was the very purpose I was leading up 
to; but by being suddenly invited to exploit my 
views, I felt uncomfortable. At that instant, too, I 
realised that I was afraid of Mrs. Wainwright Smith. 
There was something terribly piercing about those 
little eyes. 

“It seems to me that all this ornamentation and 
colouring are wrong,” I began, and I saw that Mrs. 
Smith was disappointed. So I was put on my mettle. 
“I wish that we could have a theatre as simple as a 
Greek temple.” 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Smith, shaking her head sympa- 
thetically. “Doesn’t it seem strange that after the 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 55 

Greeks showed how things should be done, people 
should ever have been such idiots as to work in any 
other way. Well, now go ahead, and tell us about 
your theatre.” 

I felt my face flushing. “I guess that’s all,” I 
replied, feeling that I was expected to say something 
fine, and fearing that my material would give out. 
“I’d have the exterior of stone,” I went on, “not 
merely because it’s more beautiful and lasting, but 
because it’s safer from fire. Most of our theatres are 
cheap, transient things.” 

“Like this,” Mrs. Smith agreed. “It’s shoddy. 
You can see that it’s built for mere show. In a few 
weeks, when it begins to wear a little, the cheapness 
will be shocking.” 

“The truth is,” I went on, gaining confidence from 
Mrs. Smith’s sympathy, “most of our theatres are 
built as mere speculations. The managers realise 
that their business is uncertain, and they can’t afford 
to build theatres of permanent value. Now, a theatre 
is just as important as any public institution. It’s a 
part of the life of the city. In fact, we can’t get 
along without the theatre,” I went on, warming up, 
but, somehow feeling silly and painfully conscious 
that, though Alice was keeping her head turned from 
me, she was listening. 

“ Heavens! ” exclaimed Mrs. Smith. “I am always 
saying to Lily that I believe I ’ll never go to another 
performance again.” 

After this setback, I calmed down “With many 
people it’s their only amusement.” 

“I suppose you’d have columned porticos and all 


56 


Our Best Society 


that,” said Mrs. Van Zandt, who had plainly been 
waiting for a chance to express this surmise. 

“I should be willing to leave those details to the 
architect,” I grandly replied. “I should only insist 
that he keep the exterior absolutely free from orna- 
mentation. The entrance and the lobby I should 
like to have of stone, too, preferably white marble. 
The only ornaments should be busts of distinguished 
playwrights and actors of the past and a few por- 
traits of actors.” 

“But nothing like those dreadful crayon-portraits 
of actors that you see in the lobbies of so many of 
our theatres,” exclaimed Mrs. Smith, throwing up her 
hands. 

I shook my head, laughing. “I would only have 
portraits in oil, that possessed value as works of art. 
And not one of them should be the portrait of a 
living actor.” 

“Oh, Lily Valentine would object to that on the 
score of advertising,” said Mrs. Smith, her little eyes 
shining. 

“Now tell us about the interior of your theatre,” 
said Mrs. Van Zandt, in a tone that I think was not 
really meant to be patronising. The orchestra had 
begun to play for the third time, and I noticed that 
the audience was beginning to be restless. 

“For the interior the greatest difficulty,” I went 
on, “would be in achieving simplicity without bare- 
ness, and applying a harmonious and quiet colouring 
without monotony. In a theatre it is, of course, the 
stage that is really important, and all this superfluous 
gilt and filigree business merely distracts the interest 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 57 

and leaves the mind fatigued for the performance. 
In my theatre,” I went on, boldly, “I should n’t have 
any gilt or any hangings or any little Cupids bearing 
slips with ‘Shakespeare’ and ‘Sheridan’ written on 
them.” 

“And then you’d have more room in the boxes, 
would n’t you?” said Mrs. Van Zandt, looking at me 
with a pleading in her eyes that made me feel exceed- 
ingly foolish. “And you’d have good, broad seats.” 

“And by all means keep the theatre small,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Smith. “These big auditoriums are 
ridiculous — the effects are so dissipated. I’m wor- 
ried to death for fear Lily won’t be heard.” 

At this point we heard a rustling in the next box, 
and we knew that Mrs. Eustace had arrived. A few 
moments later her handsome face leaned toward our 
box, and we received a whispered greeting. Then, 
just as the lights suddenly blurred from our sight the 
green and gold and the shoulders and feathers, Nicho- 
las Van Zandt stealthily returned to us. 

“I hope that Lily is going to make good,” I heard 
him whisper to his wife. 

The first act represented a New York drawing- 
room in which all the characters were supposed to 
be men and women of wealth and position. The 
men were commonplace and ungrammatical, and the 
women were not merely vulgar, but in their attitude 
toward life almost vicious, that is, with the excep- 
tion of the heroine, who was presented as the re- 
deeming feature, and who, beside the others, seemed 
curiously out of place, and yet, for this very reason, 
all the more attractive. The whole thing was grossly 


58 


Our Best Society 


exaggerated; but the people spoke so smartly, they 
dressed so well, and they all had such an air of assur- 
ance, that the impression they made somehow sug- 
gested real life. It was plain that the audience was 
interested in the play and delighted with the beauty 
and the ingenuousness of the star. When the cur- 
tain fell on the first act, I was trying to make up my 
mind about the girl’s qualities. 

“I’ve never seen her do so well,” Mrs. Smith con- 
ceded. “Walter Hart has helped her immensely. 
He’s worked her nearly to death.” 

“Then he’s trained her for the part?” Alice asked. 

“Oh, she says he’s the most wonderful trainer that 
ever lived. He knows all the tricks. And he’s espe- 
cially successful in training women. I wonder if he’s 
in one of those boxes?” Mrs. Smith raised her opera- 
glass and calmly surveyed the boxes across the 
theatre. “I thought he might be with the Ormsbys; 
but he’s probably keeping out of sight.” 

“Where do you suppose he gets his types?” Mrs. 
Van Zandt asked, addressing Mrs. Smith. 

“He makes them up altogether, or exaggerates 
them from people he meets.” 

“Does he really know anything about society?” 
Mrs. Van Zandt asked, with sweet reproach in her tone. 

“Oh, yes, of a certain kind — the noisy, pushing 
people. You see, they lend themselves to this sort of 
thing. But the way he burlesques them is ridiculous. 
However, that ’s why people like his plays. I suppose 
the real thing would seem unnatural to them.” 

Our talk was interrupted by the appearance at the 
back of our box of Mrs. Eustace and Cosgrave. At 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 59 

sight of Cosgrave I had a sense of discomfort, why, 
I could not have explained, unless it was, possibly, 
because I noticed the familiar way in which he 
greeted every one. It was unpleasant, too, his sur- 
veying the ladies critically, as if they were specimens 
of some kind. I had to stand at the back of the box 
and go on talking, with my mind focussed on what 
Cosgrave had to say, but gleaning only enough to 
make me realise that he was complimenting Alice 
again and speaking of doing the portrait of her. Sud- 
denly the orchestra stopped and we all realised that 
we had been talking very loudly. A moment later 
darkness engulfed the theatre, and we went back to 
our places. 

The second act developed the play into a wild 
melodrama, in which Miss Valentine figured as the 
central interest in the most exciting scene. As I 
watched her I could hardly keep from laughing. Her 
incompetence seemed so childish ; it was like an 
amateur performance; but the audience frantically 
applauded and called her before the curtain. Mrs. 
Smith stood in the box and waved her handkerchief, 
obviously to the delight of the girl, who bowed and 
smiled toward her. When the excitement had sub- 
sided and the orchestra had begun to play again, 
Mrs. Smith remarked severely: “Could anything be 
more absurd?” 

To my astonishment, Mrs. Van Zandt took the 
performance seriously. “Really, I had no idea she 
was so clever,” she said. 

“Well, I suppose it does take cleverness to fool 
people,” said Mrs. Smith, tartly. 


6o 


Our Best Society 


In the third act, which was also the last, the actress 
had two comedy scenes which she played rather 
gracefully. “Now this is the sort of thing she ought 
to do all the time,’’ Mrs. Smith whispered to me. 
“If her manager had any sense or any interest be- 
yond making money out of her, he would n’t let her 
do anything else.’’ Soon, however, we saw that 
more trouble was coming. “Oh, dear!’’ Mrs. Smith 
groaned. “Still, I suppose, the poor play-man must 
have a climax for his act.’’ 

The climax naturally had to surpass the final 
scene of the second act and it proved to be a terror. 
Lily Valentine rushed madly over the stage in a 
frenzy of anguish, and, to save herself from the vil- 
lain, was about to stab herself, when her lover en- 
tered and rescued her. Again the audience burst 
into applause more vociferous than before. Miss 
Valentine came out with her leading man; then she 
came again alone. When she appeared a third time, 
some of the men at the back of the theatre, whom I 
suspected to be ushers, called, “Author! Author!” 
Miss Valentine turned to the wing and held out her 
hand; but no one responded. Then she ran off the 
stage and presently returned, leading forward a pale 
young man with a bushy brown moustache, a bulging 
forehead, and a manner of extreme deprecation. He 
bowed low and, as Miss Valentine drew her hand from 
his and ran from the stage, cries from the back of 
the theatre demanded a speech. The playwright 
thrust his hands into his hip pockets and smiled good- 
naturedly. He was plainly used to facing audiences. 
In the hush that followed I noticed that, for an au- 


Lily Valentine’s First Night 61 


thor, he was remarkably well dressed. His whole 
appearance, from his shining forehead to his shining 
patent-leather shoes, suggested perfect grooming. 

For several moments he kept the audience waiting. 
Then, in a light and effeminate voice, he began to 
speak. “I am very glad you are pleased,” he said. 
“It is my business to please you if I can. So, natur- 
ally, your being pleased makes me feel pleased. 
Consequently, we are all pleased. I’m sure you are 
all very kind, and I wish you good -night.” 

He turned and walked in a leisurely way toward 
the wing. As the curtain fell, the audience, plainly 
bewildered, perfunctorily applauded and started to 
leave the theatre. 

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Smith, “I’m afraid Walter 
Hart is becoming quite spoiled. If that is n’t the 
most impertinent speech I ever heard in my life!” 

At that moment Mrs. Eustace leaned forward from 
her box. “Are we going behind?” she said, looking 
from Mrs. Smith to Van Zandt. 

“Of course,” Mrs. Smith replied. “Lily’d never 
forgive us if we did n’t.” 

“Perhaps we can persuade her to come out to sup- 
per with us,” said Van Zandt. 

“Oh, that will be ripping!” cried Monty over Mrs. 
Eustace’s shoulder. 

I looked at Alice, but Alice had her turned back 
toward me. At that moment Mrs. Eustace whis- 
pered in my ear across the railing: “I’m sure you 
could write a better play than this with your left 
hand. I advise you to be very nice to Lily when 
you meet her. Perhaps she ’ll give you your chance. ” 


CHAPTER V 


I MEET THE GREAT DRAMATIST 

S we were about to make our way to the heavy 



M door leading to the back of the stage, a young 
man in evening-dress approached Mrs. Smith. “Miss 
Valentine would like to have you come behind,” he 
said with a deference that had in it something almost 
servile. 

Mrs. Smith offered him her hand. “You’re Mr. 
Sampson, I suppose,” she remarked easily. “I’ve 
heard Miss Valentine speak of you. She says you’re 
the most wonderful exploiter in the theatrical busi- 


J } 


ness. 


The young fellow flushed and, without replying, 
walked forward. He acted as if he held us all in 
awe. 

Mrs. Eustace turned to me, with a quick glance at 
the little woman. “Isn’t she a marvel? She’s as 
much at home here as she would be in her own draw- 
ing-room. She can talk theatrical slang as well as 
any actor.” 

We found Miss Valentine standing at the back of 
the stage, surrounded with women and men, in wraps 
and overcoats. I was astonished to see that her 
face, which across the footlights looked so fresh and 
natural, was fairly plastered with make-up. On her 
eyelashes, the black stuff hung in little lumps. 


62 


I Meet the Great Dramatist 63 


At sight of Mrs. Smith, the actress waved her hand 
and darted forward. “Oh, when I saw you in that 
box,” she said, with a husky gasp, “I nearly fainted 
away. What did you come for?” 

“From a philanthropic interest,” Mrs. Smith 
serenely replied. “Not in the least because I 
thought I should be amused.” 

“Isn’t she dreadful?” said Miss Valentine with a 
deep gurgling laugh, as she turned to speak to Mrs. 
Van Zandt. When Alice and I had been presented, 
she exclaimed: 

“So you are the man who wrote Francesca Bayne? 
There’s a play in that story — only you want to 
change the ending. It’s too gloomy as it stands.” 

“My dear child, Francesca would suit you down to 
the ground,” said Mrs. Eustace, and, while I glowed 
with appreciation of her kindness, I had an intuitive 
feeling that this generous woman was fibbing for me. 

“How did you like this little play?” Miss Valen- 
tine asked, holding her head high and with the air 
of making a challenge. 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Smith, “if they try to drag 
you over the country in this dreadful melodrama, I ’d 
rebel, I positively would.” 

Miss Valentine burst out laughing. 

“But do you really suppose the public will endure 
such rubbish?” Mrs. Smith asked, her eyes darting 
from one face to another. 

“Caroline, you are dreadful,” said Mrs. Eustace. 

“Well, I speak my mind. What else can one be 
expected to do?” 

“ Don’t let them depress you,” said Mrs. Van Zandt 


6 4 


Our Best Society 


with her infantile sweetness, and Van Zandt nodded 
approvingly and exclaimed: “It’s all right, Lily. 
You’re going to make a pile of money.” 

Mrs. Smith rested her hand familiarly on my arm. 
“Well, all that I can say is that if this young man 
here can write a nice, wholesome play for you, you ’d 
better get him to do it. Your story is wholesome, 
is n’t it?” Mrs. Smith asked, turning to me. 

“Oh, it’s perfectly beautiful!” Mrs. Eustace ex- 
claimed, with a smiling glance in my direction, which 
at once proved to me that she had never read the 
book. 

“I shall have to read it,” said Mrs. Smith with a 
deep sigh. “ What a responsibility it is to meet these 
budding authors ! ’ ’ 

Mrs. Van Zandt seized the girl by the hand. “ Now, 
you’re coming out to supper with us, are n’t you?” 

“I’ve refused three invitations already,” the act- 
ress whispered, with a covert nod toward the group 
waiting for a word with her. “ I wonder if I ’d better. 
I ’m afraid the girls will sit up for me.” 

“Oh, the girls won’t mind, I’m sure,” Mrs. Van 
Zandt urged. 

“Very well, I will,” Miss Valentine assented. Then 
she darted back to her other callers. 

I turned to Mrs. Van Zandt. “Who are the girls?” 
I asked. 

“Oh, some actresses Lily lives with in Thirty-sixth 
Street. They are old friends of hers. It’s so nice 
of her to keep on with them.” 

“After getting so far ahead of them?” I ventured, 
and Mrs. Van Zandt nodded. “Success usually 


I Meet the Great Dramatist 65 


causes such separations, doesn’t it?” she remarked, 
more epigrammatically than was her wont. 

At that moment, Miss Valentine suddenly returned 
to us. She seemed to do everything by flashes. 
“You must n’t wait for me here,” she said. “ I have 
a much better scheme. Now where are we going to 
eat?” 

“I guess the Holland House would be about right,” 
Van Zandt replied. 

“Then you people go down there and I’ll follow 
in my cab as soon as I ’m dressed.” 

“Alone?” Mrs. Van Zandt asked, with a little gasp 
that made the actress smile. 

“Of course. Why not? You don’t want me to 
bring poor Ernestine, do you?’ She’s tired out 
already. She ’ll go home in the street-car.” 

“Now, my dear child,” Mrs. Smith interposed, 
“you are not to go gallivanting around New York 
alone like that. Some one must stay here and take 
you down. Fancy your going into a hotel alone at 
this hour of the night!” 

I was about to offer myself as escort, but some- 
thing in the air constrained me. I suddenly realised 
that, according to Mrs. Wain wright Smith’s code, it 
would be almost as scandalous for me to accompany 
Miss Valentine in the cab as for the actress to go 
alone. While I was taking credit to myself for the 
worldly shrewdness of my reasoning, to my astonish- 
ment I heard Miss Valentine say: 

“Well, then, let Mr. Foster wait and take me down. ” 

I bowed low. “I should be delighted!” I ex- 
claimed. 

5 


66 


Our Best Society 


“Let us go,” Mrs. Eustace urged. “I’m sure 
we’re in the way here.’’ 

Alice walked into the wings with Cosgrave, and 
disappeared from my sight without giving me a 
glance. She acted as if she were unconscious of my 
existence. When the others had disappeared, Miss 
Valentine turned to me again. 

“Now, I know you are bored to death. You don’t 
want to go out to supper any more than I do.” 

“I confess I am rather at sea,” I replied, feeling 
my face grow hot. “It was all so — so unexpected,” 
I added, lying, as I often do in embarrassment. 

“Well, those people must be humoured, I sup- 
pose,” she remarked. Then she waved her hand 
toward a young man in a long coat, who had just 
appeared in the wings. 

“There’s the great author. Come up and meet 
another great author,” she called out. 

When we had been introduced, the playwright 
pressed his face wearily with both hands: 

“Well, Lily, I believe we’ve landed,” he said. 

“Did you have any doubt about it?” she asked, 
with a pretence of indignation. 

“Oh, I knew that you would land. How could you 
help it — with a whole houseful of friends?” Walter 
Hart leaned toward me confidentially. “Lily’s the 
smoothest worker on the stage. She knows how to 
get all the rich people in New York to come to see 
her. Then, of course, the rest of the world has to 
come, too.” 

“Well, I don’t propose to stand here and let you 
talk about me like that!” Miss Valentine exclaimed, 


I Meet the Great Dramatist 6 7 


returning to her group. I heard her explain to them 
that she positively must go and dress, and I saw her 
run up the dingy corridor to her dressing-room. 
Walter Hart watched her with an amused interest. 

“She’s a good sort, isn’t she? She’s absolutely 
unspoiled, that is, so far. There’s no knowing when 
they’ll get the big head. She may wake up with it 
to-morrow. I ’ve seen it grow in a night.” He drew 
out a silver cigarette-case and held it toward me. 
“It’s against the rules,” he said, glancing swiftly 
over the stage, “but everything goes to-night.” He 
buttoned his long coat closely around him. “Belong 
to the Actors’ Club?” 

I shook my head. Walter Hart’s casual manner 
made it hard for me to talk. 

The playwright gazed fondly at his burning cigar- 
ette. I saw that he was using what Alice calls an 
“acquired manner.” I suspected that he was natur- 
ally a voluble man; but, with success, he had de- 
veloped an impressive air of reserve, easily assumed 
and easily discarded. 

“I read a little story of yours the other day,” he 
said thoughtfully. “It seemed to me very pretty.” 

“Which story was that?” I asked, as if I had a 
long list to my credit. I noticed that, in spite of 
myself, I was imitating his manner. I knew, of 
course, that he meant the last book I had published. 
Already the others had passed into the peace of death. 

“The one with that girl in it, — Francesca Some- 
thing — Bayne, that’s it! Bad name!” he said, with 
an unpleasant expression of the lips, as if tasting it. 
“I suppose you know there’s a play in that story?” 


68 


Our Best Society 


he went on. “Only I’m afraid it would be too good 
for ’em.” He changed his position impatiently. 
“That ’s the worst of working for American audiences. 
You can’t do your best. Now, in England, a man 
like Pinero can put a whole year on a play and turn 
out something fine, like The Second Mrs. Tanqueray 
— something that will last.” Hart shrugged his 
shoulders. “But the best we can do, after we’ve 
caught on, is to turn out stuff as fast as we can and 
make hay while the sup shines. In England, too, 
they have a good many advantages over us. When 
a fellow once catches on with a book or a play over 
there, he is sure of two markets, his own and the 
American market. But when we catch on over here, 
the English have no use for us.” 

“ But some of our novelists have been doing pretty 
well over there,” I ventured to say. 

Hart twisted on his heels, with a curiously effemin- 
ate impatience. Then, keeping his hands in his 
pockets, he began to sway backward and forward. 
“Oh, yes. But what does it amount to? The Eng- 
lish like Mark Twain and Bret Harte ; but they only 
take the most transient and supercilious interest in 
the rest of us.” He stretched out his hands despair- 
ingly. “They won’t have anything to do with me. 
I’ve had a half-dozen things done over there and, 
they’ve all been failures. However — ” Here the 
dramatist re-assumed his air of Napoleonic reserve. 
For a long time he did not speak. “Still,” he went 
on finally, “it’s a great game, and there’s money in 
it while they stand for you. Only there’s no know- 
ing when they’ll throw you down.” 


I Meet the Great Dramatist 69 


“You certainly have no reason to despair,” I said 
with a laugh, realising that he was making me appear 
at my worst, and hating him for it. In my inner 
consciousness, I was wondering why successful people 
often have such a depressing effect on others. 

‘Oh, no,” he carelessly agreed. “Some day, when 
I ’ve made a good big stake, I ’m going to shut myself 
up in a little place in Switzerland for a year and 
I’m going to try to write one really fine play. I 
shall forget all about the actresses and the authors 
and the charming people, like the people you are 
with to-night,” he went on contemptuously. “I 
shall please myself, and,” he drew a deep breath, “I 
suppose I shall have my labour for my pains.” 

As he spoke the curtain had risen slowly, revealing 
the dark auditorium. He turned away, as if the 
sight of those empty seats depressed him. “There’s 
something awful about a theatre,” he said. “I love 
it when it’s packed with people. Then it’s brilliant, 
inspiring. But even then I can’t help thinking: 
‘Well, in a short time, these people will all be dis- 
persed, and darkness and loneliness will take their 
place.’” He shivered, a little too obviously, I 
thought. “Don’t you hate to be alone?” he sud- 
denly asked. “I like to have people about me all 
the time, and I like colour and noise. I believe I 
could do my best work in a great factory with the 
sound of hammers ringing in my ears.” 

In spite of myself, I followed him into the wings. 
His talk had a powerful fascination. Perhaps, too, 
it appealed to my sense of curiosity, associated in 
some way with mystery. Why should this extremely 


7o 


Our Best Society 


casual fellow, this hght-and-airy fashion-plate, why- 
should he be able to write plays that drew thousands 
of people to the theatre every night? 

“You must come and see me some time,” he said 
with an obliviousness of Alice that, for a moment or 
two made me feel like a bachelor. “Come up and 
take a meal with me. I’m always at home.” 

I saved my self-respect by merely nodding. I 
should have hated myself if I had told him to come 
to see us. He seemed not to notice the indifference 
which I had tried so hard to emphasise; he merely 
looked vaguely across the stage and remarked: “Oh, 
here’s Lily.’’ He smiled, waiting for the girl to 
come up. “Lily, I know where you learned to act. 
You’ve been a lightning-change artist in the old 
variety theatres.’’ 

Miss Valentine was emphatically drawing on her 
gloves. She dropped a little curtsey. “Dear mas- 
ter,” she said, giving Hart a demure look, “all I 
know about any art I have learned from you.” 

Hart glanced from the actress to me. “Isn’t it 
too bad that she can’t do things like that when 
there’s an audience out there!” He sighed with de- 
spair. “O Lily! if you weren’t so self-conscious 
you might become a great woman some day.” 

Miss Valentine nodded toward me. “He likes to 
do that. He’s always acting.” 

Walter Hart threw out one arm and gazed into the 
flies. “Ah, my dear, I might have made a great 
tragedian if I’d had a little less sense.” His voice 
dropped into a conversational tone. “Really I was 
a very fine actor once, or rather, actress. I used to 


I Meet the Great Dramatist 


7 1 


play the leading-lady roles in our dramatic club at 
college.” 

“ Could n’t you tell it from the women he puts into 
his plays?” Miss Valentine exclaimed. 

She buttoned the last button of her glove, and she 
slapped her hands against her long automobile coat. 
She kept her eyes fixed on the dramatist. For a 
moment I felt as if I were not present, or, rather, 
as if I ought to make my presence felt to let them 
know I was there. 

“Don’t you want to come with us, Wallie?” 

“To sup with those charming people?” Hart 
waved his hand and started up the wings. “I al- 
ways charge for entertaining society,” he exclaimed, 
drawing up the tails of his overcoat and pirouetting. 
“Two dollars a seat!” At the door his voice assumed 
a tone of severity: “Lily, you ought to go home and 
go to bed. It’s ridiculous, your sitting up till three 
o’clock in the morning ! ” 

“I don’t believe you’re going home yourself,” she 
retorted. 

“Of course I’m not. There are some fellows wait- 
ing for me at the club. They’re giving me a supper. 
But, you see, I ain’t no lady. Remember, Lily, now 
that you’re so successful, you’re a lady.” 

“Run away,” said Miss Valentine, with a wave of 
her hand. 

Hart nodded toward a low white automobile that 
was rebelliously puffing at the curb-stone. The motor- 
man touched his cap. “Shall I take you down?” 

Miss Valentine shook her head. “I prefer my 
modest cab. Once a lady, always cautious.” 


72 


Our Best Society 


“Well, good-night, dear Lily,” Hart said, extend- 
ing his hand and bending toward the girl. 

She allowed him to press the tips of her fingers. 
“Now don’t you dare kiss it,’’ she said. 

He turned away, forgetting me, and I helped Miss 
Valentine into the cab. A moment later, we heard 
Hart sputtering down the street. 

“He’s a dear thing, Walter Hart,” said Miss Valen- 
tine, sinking into a corner. “ Only I wish he would n’t 
act all the time. It reminds me too much of work.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE DIFFICULTIES OF BEING A HERO 

UR cab had turned into Broadway, and through 



the windows, letting in the warm October air, 
we could see the crowds in the street and the flaming 
lights of the restaurants. The theatres were all 
closed and their brilliancy was dimmed. Miss Valen- 
tine watched the spectacle with shining eyes, but 
she was plainly too tired to speak. Perhaps it was 
my imagination that made me think the sight of the 
night life in New York was hateful to her, and that, 
somehow, her apparently inexhaustible vivacity had 
been assumed. 

Just as I was deciding not to talk, but to let the 
girl have a few minutes of rest before beginning the 
business of society again, I was suddenly plunged 
forward and I found myself scrambling on the floor 
of the cab. 

I realised vaguely that my companion had been 
hurled forward, too, and that the cab was trembling, 
as if shaken with electricity. Indistinctly, and as if 
from afar, I heard the shouts of men, with the thin, 
shrill cries of women intermingled. Then the cab 
dashed down Broadway and I knew by some process 
of reasoning that the driver had been hurled from his 
box. Our horse plunged wildly between cable-cars 


73 


74 


Our Best Society 


and cabs and automobiles. I tried to seize Miss 
Valentine, less, I acknowledge, for the purpose of 
helping her than of steadying myself, and for a few 
moments we kept clutching at each other and bump- 
ing together. The lights in the streets flashed past 
us, and I was conscious of a deep resentment against 
those people who, by their frantic waving of arms 
and by their outcries, were further inflaming our 
horse. As I thought of the chaos in Herald Square 
and dreaded what would happen when we reached 
Thirty-fourth Street, the rocking of the cab ceased, 
and, for a brief interval, we bowled along quite 
smoothly. Miss Valentine and I scrambled to the 
seat and we gasped for breath. 

“The horse is running away!” Miss Valentine ex- 
claimed, and, on receiving this information, I had a 
wild impulse to laugh. 

“Don’t jump out under any consideration!” I ex- 
claimed. 

The girl turned her brown eyes toward me in ap- 
parent reproach for my stupidity. They seemed to 
cover one-half of her face. 

At Herald Square it became plain that our arrival 
had been anticipated and we dashed past Thirty- 
fourth Street without meeting an obstruction. Then 
the horse grew wild again, and our career between 
Thirtieth Street and Twenty -third was so frantically 
zigzag that, to this day, it makes me dizzy to think 
of it. Without looking at Miss Valentine, I knew 
that her face was white and that her lips were tightly 
pressed together. Again that horrible impulse to 
laugh seized me. It was accompanied by a powerful 


The Difficulties of Being a Hero 75 

desire to talk, to yell ; but, while the cab kept rock- 
ing and whirling, I could think of nothing to say. 
And yet my mind kept working with an extraordinary 
rapidity. 

As we neared Madison Square one thought kept 
repeating itself. It was like a puzzle: On reaching 
Madison Square would that horse have sense enough 
to turn into Fifth Avenue, where he would have a 
comparatively free course, on smooth asphalt, or 
would he prefer Broadway, with its tracks, its long 
chain of cable-cars, its cobble-stones? In my imag- 
ination, I kept seeing a cab, wildly curving again and 
again from the edges of the tracks. 

All the inanimate things that we passed, the big 
buildings, the sidewalks, the electric-light poles, 
seemed to have taken on life. They moved with a 
monstrous and demon-like agility; the electric-light 
poles possessed a fantastic humour. With an anx- 
iety that related itself to a sickly feeling in the 
region of the heart, I watched for the approach of 
Madison Square. As the Hoffman House was about 
to whirl past us, it suddenly reeled back; then it 
leaped up and down in the air, and disappeared in a 
blackness that quickly became luminous with stars. 
The door of the cab opened ; a crowd of faces peered 
at the door ; several arms and hands were stretched 
toward us, and drew out a limp figure which was 
strangely unlike Miss Valentine. A moment later I 
was standing on the sidewalk, feeling as if I had just 
stepped off a pair of skates, and recalling the inquisi- 
tive and amused face of my dentist at home, sur- 
rounded with white smoke. 


76 


Our Best Society 


“Well, you had a pretty narrow escape, sir.” 

Then I partly regained my balance. A group of 
men were helping Miss Valentine across the street to 
a drug-store. I had what I can only describe as the 
ghost of an impulse to follow her ; but it faded away. 
A woman’s pitying face roused me to make an effort 
to walk. But I could only move unsteadily. Some 
one took me gently by the arm. 

“Why, it’s Mr. Foster!’’ 

I looked at the speaker. His appearance seemed 
familiar. The voice, too, I vaguely recognised. 
“Oh!’’ - 1 said mechanically. I knew I had seen him 
somewhere. Then I laughed, not hysterically, but 
weakly, foolishly, forlornly. I was bitterly deploring 
my failure to play a noble part, to fulfil the popular 
ideal of a man. At that moment I was not a man; 
I was a bundle of distracted nerves. I secretly 
assured myself that it would be a great comfort to 
cry for a long time ; but I must hide that weakness 
from all the world, for a moment, at any rate. If I 
could only keep my mind from working so hard! 
Really, I had it on the run. 

“You’d better let me help you across the street, 
Mr. Foster,” said the man with the curiously familiar 
and yet unfamiliar voice. 

I wondered why he was so respectful. Then I re- 
membered where I had seen him. He had once come 
to interview me. He was a reporter. I don’t know 
why this realisation should have been followed by an 
impulse that made me turn to the cab and say: “Is 
the horse hurt?” 

“Oh, no. He’s all right. They’ll take care of 


The Difficulties of Being a Hero 77 

him. The driver’s probably chasing down Broadway 
now. 

“Oh!” I said. “The driver.” I noticed how 
gentle my voice was. If Alice could hear me, she 
would weep. I felt myself to be a singularly pathetic 
figure. And yet an uneasy suspicion came to me 
:hat there was something wrong with my crush-hat. 
It clung irresolutely to my right eyebrow; but my 
arms were too heavy to straighten it out. 

“A glass of whiskey will make you feel all right, 
Mr. Foster.” 

I felt a strange irritability because this man kept 
calling me Mr. Foster. And then, I did n’t like the 
way he was holding my arm. He was wrenching it 
out of its socket. If I should 

“That’s right. Drink it down without stopping.” 

I gulped several times, with painful regularity, and 
a warmth slowly spread itself through my body. Miss 
Valentine, far away, came nearer. She was like a 
figure in the cinematograph. Bump! There she was. 

“Well, you came mighty near!” she said cheerfully. 

“Near what?” I asked. 

“Near fainting!” 

“Did you faint?” I whispered, and I listened for 
the answer as if my fate depended on it. 

“Of course, I did. But I always come to in a 
jiffy.” 

“Oh, if you fainted,” I remarked in a tone of con- 
cession. How white and glittering that drug-store 
was! All marble and electric light. And then, of a 
sudden, with the force of a blow, I recalled that they 
were waiting for us in the Holland House. 


78 


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“What will they think?” I said. “They’ll be 
scared to death. Do you suppose they have been 
waiting all this time?” 

Miss Valentine looked alarmed. She gazed at me 
as one does at an insane man. Then I realised that 
in the past few moments I had not lived nearly so 
long as I supposed. It seemed a lifetime since Alice 
left me at the theatre. 

“If you will re-arrange your hat, you won’t look 
quite so dissipated, Mr. Foster,” said Miss Valentine, 
smiling first at the people who had followed us into 
the place and then at me. I glanced at a mirror and 
I was startled by the image I saw there, a cadaverous, 
white-faced young man, unable to hold himself up 
straight, and evidently having trouble to balance his 
crush-hat on his head. I re-adjusted the hat and I 
stood erect. 

The reporter turned to a young man who had just 
entered and they whispered together. “The driver 
is all right,” he explained. “He was just shaken up 
a bit. Some people who saw him fall followed you 
in an automobile, and you need n’t worry about the 
cab,” he added, smiling. “The policeman will hold 
the horse till the driver comes down.” 

I don’t know why these words should have made 
me feel ignoble, but they did. 

Miss Valentine glanced apprehensively at the 
crowd. “Won’t it be awful, having to face those 
people ? But we ’ve got to get to the Holland House.” 

She suddenly turned to the reporter and pressed 
her hand against her mouth. “But you won’t say 
anything about that, will you, Mr, Leonard? We’re 


The Difficulties of Being a Hero 79 

taking supper with some people — just some friends of 
ours, you know.” 

Leonard smiled. “All right, Miss Valentine,” he 
said, as if granting her a favour. 

I started toward the door, but, as I was about to 
turn to thank the reporter, Miss Valentine exclaimed: 
“We mustn’t forget to pay our little bill.” 

I turned, feeling like an idiot, and a moment later, 
we escaped by the door leading to Fifth Avenue. A 
hansom cab slowly approached us, the whip of the 
driver trailing in the air. The sight of it made Miss 
Valentine shiver. “Ugh!” she said, letting her hand 
rest on my arm. “No more cabs for me to-night. I 
believe I shall have to walk home. Just look around 
and see if any one is following us. Perhaps we’d 
better not go straight to the hotel. Let us walk up 
to Twenty-sixth Street and then turn down toward 
Fourth Avenue. The air will do me good. I feel just 
a little, — well, just a little wobbly, and I sha’n’t dare 
to face all those smart people till I brace up a bit.” 
She gave my arm a little squeeze. “I’m so glad you 
are n’t a society person,” she concluded, with a deep 
sigh. 

When we had walked half-way down the block 
toward Madison Square, Miss Valentine began to 
tremble. “Now, don’t be frightened. It is n’t any- 
thing,” she assured me. “I’m often like this before 
I go on the stage. You see, the first night and all 
this excitement. Now let ’s walk a little more slowly. 
Have we really escaped the crowd? I was afraid 
some of them might follow.” 

We kept straight on, and by the time we reached 


8o 


Our Best Society 


Lexington Avenue she had stopped trembling. “ Per- 
haps it will be safe to face society now,” she said. 
“I do hope that reporter-man won’t say anything 
about the Holland House. It will be such a bore to 
drag in the Van Zandts and the others. Not that 
they’ll mind so much. They’re used to being in the 
newspapers. But this is one of the horrid things 
about the theatrical business.” Then she smiled 
faintly. “Would n’t it have been terrible if the rising 
young author had been killed ! And with an actress ! 
How romantic! And what a scandal! What would 
Mrs. Foster say?” 

I was tempted to reply, “She’d say it served me 
right,” but, instead, I remarked, “Mrs. Foster takes 
a sensible view of everything.” 

“Ah!” For several moments Miss Valentine was 
silent. “Does she help you with your writing?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, yes, I read everything to her. She criticises 
the characters and their clothes and ” 

“Does n’t she ever get jealous of the women?” 

“The women in my stories?” I asked, in astonish- 
ment. 

Miss Valentine nodded. 

“Never. Why should she?” 

“I can’t think of anything that would be more 
natural,” the actress replied. 

Then I became fatuous. “You don’t know Mrs. 
Foster,” I said. 

“I know that she’s a woman,” she replied serenely. 
“And you can’t make all your lovely heroines like 
her.” 


The Difficulties of Being a Hero 81 


“No,” I acknowledged. “That would grow mono- 
tonous — for the reader.” 

“It’s different with painters, isn’t it?” she went 
on reflectively. “Some of them are always putting 
their wives into pictures. What does your wife say 
when you describe an ideal woman that does n’t re- 
semble her in the least ? Does n’t she want to know 
where you found your model?” 

“I don’t draw any ideal women,” I replied. “I 
don’t believe there are any.” 

“Oh!” Miss Valentine exclaimed, pretending to be 
shocked. 

“You ought to have allowed me to finish. Real 
women are much more attractive.” 

She nodded her head knowingly. “I shall have 
to talk about that with your wife,” she said. 

As we approached the Holland House, I noticed 
that it was half -past twelve. Again I had a sense 
of incredibility and a realisation of the purely 
relative existence of time. It seemed as if Alice 
could not possibly be at the hotel. This thought 
warned me not to betray agitation on seeing her. 
Miss Valentine must have been going through a 
somewhat similar process in her mind, for she 
said: 

“I suppose we must tell them.” 

“I ’ll let you break the news.” 

“I think I’ll wait till I’ve had something to eat.” 
Miss Valentine looked at me sharply. “Well, you’re 
presentable enough. How about me?” 

I assured her that it was wonderful, the way she 

had regained her composure, and we walked boldly 
6 


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into the dining-room. We found our friends at one 
of the big tables. 

“You got down here pretty quickly!” Mrs. Smith 
exclaimed, to my amazement. 

Alice, seated beside Cosgrave and Monty, fixed her 
eyes on the actress, and ignored me. She was smil- 
ing radiantly and she looked wonderfully pretty. I 
tried to catch her glance, but she remained appar- 
ently oblivious of my presence. 

Mrs. Van Zandt had arranged to have me sit be- 
tween Mrs. Eustace and Mrs. Wainwright Smith, 
directly opposite Alice. At the moment I did not 
realise that Alice would overhear every word I said. 

“Well, I hope you got on with the great actress?” 
Mrs. Eustace said under her breath. 

“Oh, we got on splendidly,” I replied. 

“Did you talk about the play you are going to 
write for her?” 

“We had more interesting things to talk about.” 

For the first time since I took my seat, Alice turned 
her face toward me. Her eyes were shining fever- 
ishly, and there was a look of tension around her 
mouth that I had never seen before. In spite of 
myself, I had to look away. 

“She is going to be the rage, I’m sure,” Mrs. Eus- 
tace continued, “and you must cultivate her. I’ve 
been talking with Mrs. Smith, and we’ve made a plan 
for you.” 

Mrs. Smith turned to me. “Lily needs some fresh 
air. So I ’m going to take her up on the coach on 
Monday morning to Ardsley. Teddy Markoe ’s driv- 
ing and he wants you to come along, too, with your 


The Difficulties of Being a Hero 83 

wife. Now you must n’t say a word about your work. 
Your wife says you’re a slave ; but you must give up 
your slavery for once. Besides, it’s all in the way of 
business. If I don’t get an order for a play for you 
before we come home, why, I ’ll give you an order 
myself, and I’ll take the star-part.” 

I felt my eyes ridiculously filling with tears. I 
suppose I was still shaken up. Through a mist I 
looked at Alice, hoping for a sympathetic glance from 
her. But she sat there like stone, turning from Cos- 
grave to Monty Dyer to speak a few words and to 
force her lips into a mechanical smile. I wondered 
what the matter was. 

The waiter had filled my glass with champagne; 
but for fear of becoming giddy, I had not dared to 
drink. When the lobster was served, however, and I 
had eaten, I grew courageous. Miss Valentine, I 
observed, ate ravenously and was having her glass 
replenished. A swift glance at Alice’s neglected plate 
confirmed my worst suspicions. A wall of ice seemed 
to have grown up between us. 

Mrs. Wain wright Smith had set the talk going 
again on the subject of Walter Hart’s play. “I do 
think it ’s a shame the way he ’s captured the 
theatres,” she said. “Why, he had four of his old 
plays going here at one time last winter.” 

“Well, that’s success, isn’t it?” said the good- 
natured Van Zandt, with the business-man’s standard 
of values. 

“But they are all so much alike , dearest, ’ ’ said his wife . 

“All Walter Hart can do is to make women ridicu- 
lous,” Mrs, Eustace chimed in. 


8 4 


Our Best Society 


“That’s what he calls being natural,” exclaimed 
Miss Valentine, taking another sip of champagne. I 
began to be nervous for her, and to wonder if I ought 
not to tell Mrs. Smith what had happened. The 
longer we delayed telling, the more I dreaded the 
explanation. 

“A gentleman to speak to Miss Valentine, sir.” 

We all heard the words addressed by the waiter to 
Nicholas Van Zandt. In the face of Mrs. Wain wright 
Smith, resentment of the intrusion was plainly 
depicted. 

“Lily, you ought to teach your adorers not to be 
so forward.” 

Miss Valentine remained beautifully at ease. I 
had never admired her so much. Ignoring Mrs. 
Smith, she turned to the waiter. “Did the gentle- 
man give his name?” she asked. 

“ No, miss. But I think he said he was a reporter,” 
the waiter replied. “He wanted to speak to you 
about the accident, he said.” 

Miss Valentine’s face flushed, and, across the table, 
I thought I could feel a vibration of alarm in Alice. 

“What accident?” Mrs. Smith asked. 

“Nothing of the least consequence.” Miss Valen- 
tine was really superb. Instead of turning to Mrs. 
Smith, she spoke to us all. She was as casual in 
manner as Alice can be when she wishes to score one 
of her finest points. “ Our horse grew a little unman- 
ageable as we came down Broadway, and shook us 
up a bit.” 

“And you’ve been hiding that from us all this 
time, you little wretch!” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. 


The Difficulties of Being a Hero 85 


“Simply because I knew how nervous you were, 
dear Mrs. Smith,” Miss Valentine sweetly replied. 

I did not dare to look at Alice. But from across 
the table I was conscious that she felt a sense of tri- 
umph, resulting from a confirmation of her intuition. 
Whenever Alice has an intuition confirmed, the con- 
sequences are terrible. 

Letty Henderson looked as if she were about to 
burst into tears. Mrs. Van Zandt was pale, and all 
the men seemed apprehensive. “Shall I go and see 
the reporter?” Van Zandt asked. 

“No, please don’t.” Miss Valentine’s face ex- 
pressed a polite ennui. “There’s nothing to be said, 
and I’m sorry I can’t see him myself.” 

The waiter nodded and left the table. 

“Really these actresses are quite spoiled, aren’t 
they?” Mrs. Eustace whispered to me. “Wouldn’t 
you think she was a little queen sitting up there?” 

“Lily, you’ll have to come home with me to- 
night,” Mrs. Smith severely remarked, and she rose 
from her seat. “I see that some one must take care 
of you.” 

The others rose in silence and then a curious thing 
happened : the women at once formed a group around 
the actress, clamouring for the story of the adventure, 
and the men gathered around me. We must have 
made a small sensation in the dining-room. After 
few moments, Mrs. Smith walked toward me: 

“I’m going to take you and your wife home in my 
carriage,” she said, “ with Lily. Fortunately, I have 
a man on the box that I can trust.” 

I discovered that I had been wondering how I was 


86 


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to get home with Alice, and I inwardly breathed a 
sigh of relief. As we were leaving the hotel Teddy 
followed us to the carriage: “ It ’s still on for Monday, 
isn’t it?” 

“Of course it is, you silly boy.” Mrs. Smith im- 
patiently waved her hand. “But don’t talk about it 
now! ” 

Teddy closed the door with a bang, and away we 
started down Fifth Avenue. 

During the drive to our house, Mrs. Smith occupied 
most of the time in scolding Lily Valentine. Alice 
and I sat in silence, glancing covertly at each other. 
As we entered our house it seemed so lonely and for- 
lorn that I almost shivered. It took us an intermin- 
able time to drag up the stairs. I opened the door 
of the apartment and held my back to it as Alice 
passed in. “Well, my dear,” I said, following her 
into the little hall. 

She suddenly faced me, her eyes blazing: “Don’t 
speak to me!” she exclaimed. 

“Oh, very well, then,” I said, and, turning on the 
electric -light, I went into the dining-room, changed 
my coat, and lit my pipe. My literary sense noted 
that I was going through the movements expressive 
of peace and content, while my whole being seemed 
to be wrapped in desolation. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SCENARIO IS WRITTEN 

F OR a long time I sat without stirring. Not a 
sound could be heard in the apartment. I won- 
dered if Alice had gone to bed. Then I heard her 
moving about and, on an impulse, I seized a book 
and pretended to read. A moment later she entered 
the room with a rustling sound that told me she had 
changed her theatre-dress for a loose gown. I put 
down the book, and I saw at once that Alice had been 
crying. 

“I am sorry,” she said, with the calm nobility of 
the Roman matron. 

She sat at some distance from me, letting her elbow 
rest on the table. It was plain that she expected me 
to rise to the heights that she had achieved; but I 
could not think of any words to compete with hers. 

Presently her eyes filled with tears. “I think you 
might be a little kinder,” she said, her lips trembling. 

Those words made it plain to me that the moment 
had come for firmness. 

“I don’t see what you have done to expect kind- 
ness from me,” I said, and Alice broke out: 

“To think that I had to sit up there and smile and 
pretend I was happy while you were going through 
all that! And then, when you came into the hotel, I 

87 


88 


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knew right off that something had happened. And 
to hide it from me all that time and to have it come 
out as it did — from her!” 

“From her," I repeated. “That child!” 

Alice laughed hysterically. “She’s ten times as 
old as you are — in experience, I mean. You were 
nothing to her, any more than dozens of other men 
that she meets, except so far as she could use you.” 
Alice clasped her hands and pressed them against her 
breast, as if trying to keep back the flood of emotion 
that was surging there. “Oh, I think I must be 
sick,” she lamented. “ I ’m so wretched, so wretched. 
Why did n’t you let one of the other men wait for 
her — one of those bachelors?” she concluded, inject- 
ing into her voice the married woman’s scorn for the 
unmarried man. 

I ignored the question. “ I am never jealous when 
men pay you attention.” 

Here Alice laughed again. The sound was dis- 
tressing. “Why, you perfectly hated little Monty 
because he was polite to me at the Van Zandts’ the 
other night. And you were furious with Mr. Cosgrave 
because he wanted to paint my portrait.” 

“In future, I will try to appreciate Monty’s supe- 
rior qualities, and, as for Cosgrave, he may paint as 
many portraits of you as he likes.” 

“He is going to begin on Thursday,” said Alice, 
becoming quiet all of a sudden. 

There was a slight gulping movement in my throat, 
but I don’t think that Alice detected it. 

“Are you going to his studio alone?” I asked, and 
a little glint appeared in Alice’s eyes. 


The Scenario is Written 


89 


“ I should think you would know better than that,” 
she said, in the tone she always employs when she 

has the advantage. ‘‘Letty Henderson is going with 
*» 

me. 

I cannot explain the reason, but I felt as if I had 
been worsted. I believe that Alice felt so, too, for 
she rapidly grew more serene. I experienced an in- 
explicable desire to talk about the accident, though 
I perceived that Alice’s interest had somewhat sub- 
sided. 

Nevertheless, I gave a complete account of the 
night’s adventure. When I had finished, Alice stoi- 
cally remarked: “Of course, it will get into the 
papers.” 

“Well, it will be a good advertisement,” I said, 
making a dismal effort to be jocose. 

“What did you talk about while you were taking 
that midnight stroll?” 

“About you, chiefly.” 

“H’m!” In the silence that followed I saw that 
Alice was making a great effort. “To-morrow we 
will go and call on her.” 

I nodded, not daring to speak. Alice’s hand was 
resting on the table, and my hand strayed toward 
it and rested beside it. 

“Of course, if all this excitement helps your getting 
an order for a play, it will be worth the work.” 

“Of course,” I assented, with a curious desire to 
laugh. 

Alice brightened. “If you could have heard them 
talk at the table about the play. They were just as 
interested! I could tell that it was something new 


go 


Our Best Society 


for them. They must get terribly bored — especially 
poor Mrs. Van Zandt.” 

“I don’t see how they can help it,” I gloomily 
agreed. 

“And then it was funny, watching the undercur- 
rents.” 

“The what?” I asked, bewildered. 

“What was going on under the surface. Mr. Cos- 
grave is carrying on a desperate flirtation with Mrs. 
Eustace. I had a suspicion of it that night at the 
Van Zandts’. Now I’m sure.” 

“He’ll never get her.” 

Alice shrugged her shoulders. “She’s only amus- 
ing herself. And she ’s piqued because he seems so in- 
different. It’s one of those horrid enemy-flirtations.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Alice smiled with conscious wisdom. 

“ Don’t you know how some people flirt together 
just to make each other unhappy?” 

“I never heard of such a thing.” 

“Well, dearest, it’s time you learned. Isn’t it 
strange the way writers go on saying the same old 
things about love?” 

“There are n’t so many things to be said. I imag- 
ine that the ways of lovers are more or less alike all 
the world over.” 

“Perhaps.” Alice gazed into space. “I can un- 
derstand why Mrs. Eustace has had so much trouble 
in her life. Is n’t it awful to have the kind of nature 
that forces you to rush into danger all the time ; that 
makes you do things that are sure to end in un- 
happiness?” 


The Scenario is Written 


9i 


“You talk like a Greek tragedy,” I said impatiently. 

“But I feel more sorry for Letty Henderson,” said 
Alice, with the absent look designed to indicate the 
indifference of superiority. 

“ Now why should you feel sorry for that extremely 
pretty and amiable girl?” 

“Because she’s having her tragedy too.” 

I laughed aloud. “What’s her tragedy?” 

“I suspect that Teddy is.” 

“You mean that she’s in love with him and he 
never looks at her, I suppose.” 

“That’s as accurate as most of your guesses are, 
Ned.” 

Alice rose, yawning. “It’s past two o’clock. 
Think how cross you’ll be in the morning.” 

“Well, it’s Sunday. I sha’n’t get up till noon.” 

The next morning I woke at nine. Alice was 
already up and busy in the dining-room. I called to 
her, and a moment later I heard the sound of her 
step outside. 

“Have you seen the papers?” I asked. Alice 
leaned against the door, looking wonderfully fresh 
and pretty in her pink shirt-waist. 

“I’ve seen one paper,” she replied indifferently. 

“Anything about the accident?” 

“Not a word.” 

She turned away and, though I could not see her, 
I knew that she was laughing. 

“How about the play?” I called out. 

“It’s one of Bailey’s fiercest roasts,” Alice replied. 

I sat up in bed. “Let me see it,” I said, brushing 
back my hair with both hands. I turned to the page 


92 


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where the reviews of the drama usually appeared. 
As I read, Alice stood by the bedside in silence. 

When I had finished, I let the sheet drop on the 
floor, and I gasped aloud. 

Alice smiled faintly. “Won’t Walter Hart have a 
lovely time when he sees that?” 

“Well, it’s true enough. But what’s the use of 
being so brutal?” 

“I suppose people have to exercise their faculties,” 
Alice said philosophically. “Those who have ami- 
able dispositions have to go on expressing amiability. 
That’s one reason why they are so tiresome,” she in- 
terjected. “And if they are brutes, they have to 
be brutal. And, of course, a critic has especially 
good opportunities to show just what he is. But it is 
mean of him to treat Miss Valentine so. The idea 
of his saying that she sets up to be a great actress! 
She knows perfectly well what her limitations are. 
She goes out and she acts exactly as she does off the 
stage.” 

“Yes, it’s a success of personality,” I acknow- 
ledged. “But, in spite of what Bailey says, the 
piece can’t help being a go. He merely represents the 
literary point of view,” I said, with the superiority I 
always feel when I disparage people and things literary. 

Alice gave my remark more consideration than it 
really deserved. “Sometimes the literary point of 
view coincides with the popular point of view. Now, 
as Bailey says, there is something decadent in all of 
Walter Hart’s writing. That may appeal to sophis- 
ticated New York audiences; but it isn’t likely to 
be accepted out of town.” 


The Scenario is Written 


93 


“True,” I assented, somewhat astonished by Alice’s 
reasoning. Now I know a great many more facts 
than Alice does; but she makes more deductions 
than I do. At times her facts have a way of shaping 
themselves into the most extraordinarily significant 
combinations. 

“So many things succeed here and then fail on the 
road,” Alice went on. 

I waited, feeling sure that she was leading some- 
where. 

“If the piece doesn’t go on the road, Miss Valen- 
tine will have to put on another play, and she ’ll have 
to put it on in a hurry.” 

“They may keep the thing in New York all win- 
ter,” I said, merely to give Alice a new obstacle to 
overcome. 

“But they almost never do that — even with the 
big successes. I heard Miss Valentine say last night 
that it was awfully hard to make money in New 
York. She said that nearly all the money was made 
on the road.” 

“Alice,” I said, “when I become a great play- 
wright, I’ll make you my business-manager.” 

“Well, you’d better hurry up and get to work,” 
Alice retorted, walking out of the room. “Your 
bath is ready for you,” she called out, through the 
open door. 

Alice’s words, together with the exhilaration of the 
bath, caused me to dress quickly. I felt a strong 
impulse to go straight to my desk and to begin work 
at once on the scenario of my play. But breakfast 
was too tempting, and I took my place at the table. 


94 


Our Best Society 


Alice watched me with the indulgent and amused 
smile which the sight of my eating always inspires in 
her. The more I eat, the more cheerful she grows; 
sometimes, the consciousness of the duty of indulging 
her in this regard almost takes away my appetite. 
This morning the coffee seemed particularly golden 
and aromatic and, when I had paid it a compliment, 
Alice said: 

“ I don’t think that it varies much from day to day. 
You happen to be unusually good-natured this morn- 
ing. You contribute more to the coffee, as it were.” 

“Oh, this morning,” I cried aloud, “I am the 
greatest author that ever lived. I could give Shake- 
speare cards and spades.” 

“ Hush! ” Alice whispered. “ Mary will be alarmed 
about you. She thinks you ’re queer enough already. ’ ’ 

When I had finished eating, I thought of those 
other newspapers, containing accounts of the acci- 
dent. I must go out and get them. “I’ll be back 
in a few minutes,” I said to Alice, taking my hat and 
starting for the door. I knew that no further ex- 
planation was necessary. At the news-stand, I aston- 
ished the man by asking for every New York paper 
except The Sentinel. 

“You must have been making a speech, sir,” he 
said facetiously. Then he proceeded to load me up. 
My arms were literally full. With the foolish idea of 
eluding observation, I ran all the way back. 

Alice viewed me from head to foot, with a disgusted 
expression on her face. “And yet they say that 
women are vain,” she said, bending forward to pick 
up one of the papers. 


'*• . jib* 


The Scenario is Written 


95 


I knew enough about the methods of newspapers 
to surmise that the references to our little adventure 
would probably be on one of the first pages. Long 
before the runaway took place, in some cases two or 
three days, the supplements had gone to press. So 
I rapidly glanced over the news-columns. In one 
paper I could find nothing about our experience; in 
another, I read a brief paragraph in which it was re- 
corded that Miss Valentine, accompanied by a “young 
man,” had been badly shaken up by the frantic dash- 
ing of her cab down Broadway, but had escaped 
uninjured. The reporter had apparently been indiffer- 
ent to the fate of the young man. The third paper 
gave a few lines to the episode, concluding with the 
words, “Miss Valentine was accompanied by Mr. 
Walter Hart, the author of the play in which she had 
just made her first appearance.” 

Alice, who had been sitting beside me as I read, 
must have been studying my face. “ Let me see,” she 
said. When she had finished reading, she shrugged 
her shoulders. “After all, it wasn’t so much, was 
it?” she said disparagingly. 

“You might feel different if you’d had the experi- 
ence yourself,” I answered, and for the next few 
minutes I glanced rapidly over the notices of the pro- 
duction the night before. I knew that Alice suspected 
I was disappointed, and I had to emphasise my in- 
difference. Nearly all of the papers praised Miss 
Valentine, and a few praised the play, but with re- 
servations; several of the critics, however, were as 
severe with Walter Hart as The Sentinel had been, 
and two of them referred to his patronising speech. 


g6 


Our Best Society 


For a few moments we talked about the great play 
I was to write for Lily Valentine, and as Alice left 
the room I turned to my desk in a fine glow of en- 
thusiasm. Even the ringing of the bells on a dozen 
churches did not disturb me; they actually seemed 
to blend into my mood. I felt strangely happy. I 
congratulated myself on being in New York in the 
very heart of things. So many men that I knew, 
men far cleverer than I, were buried in small towns 
and sentenced for life to petty interests and cares. 
I rapidly thought out the chief episodes in Francesca 
Bayne. Some of those that I liked best, I perceived, 
could not be acted on the stage. At first, I thought 
they might be indirectly introduced by means of de- 
scription; but no, that would be a mistake of policy. 
I must let the action develop itself before the audi- 
ence. So many plays had failed because the most 
interesting of the incidents took place off the stage. 
For a long time I sat holding my head in my hands. 
Outside, Alice was moving about on tiptoe. The 
great point, I kept saying to myself, was to have a 
fine climax to each act. And I must be careful not 
to have more than four acts. Five-act plays, unless 
they were melodramas, had gone completely out of 
fashion. And then, I must keep the action lively by 
means of short, swiftly moving scenes. The first act 
must be all comedy and sentiment; but the interest 
must be established as soon as possible after the first 
ten minutes, when people would still keep coming in 
and the ushers would be slapping down seats. Of 
course, during those ten minutes the star must not 
be on the stage. Long before she made her en- 


The Scenario is Written 


97 


trance, the audience ought to be comfortably settled 
and absorbed, but alert for the appearance of the 
heroine. 

At this point, I began to wonder how any one had 
ever undertaken to write a play, or, having made a 
beginning, had succeeded in reaching the end. And 
yet, when I saw plays produced, plays that were 
successful, too, it seemed as if they must have been 
easy to write. I felt a new respect for Walter Hart, 
and a vague surprise that neither in his face nor in 
his manner did he betray that he had passed so often 
through the ordeal just beginning for me. I drew a 
breath that seemed to inflate me from my neck to my 
feet, and I exhaled it in a long sigh. I had an im- 
pulse to call in Alice and explain to her that, for me, 
the art of play-writing was impossible, and that we 
must give up the thought of ever occupying a house 
and accept our destiny as life-dwellers in a flat. On 
reflection, however, I saw that this course would 
place me at a hideous disadvantage in Alice’s eyes, 
and I forced my mind to resume work on that plot 
again. Suddenly, as if by an influence wholly out- 
side myself, I conceived the outline of a plan for the 
first act. What could be more simple ? What could 
be more delightful? Why, of course, it was just the 
thing! I sketched it out quickly. The entrance on 
the horse ! Why had n’t I thought of that before ? 
It would be daring and original, and Miss Valentine 
would look charming in her riding-habit. I saw the 
hero leap from his horse to assist her, and I saw 
Lily Valentine refuse his help and bound from the 
saddle to the ground, while the audience smiled and 

7 


g8 


Our Best Society 


applauded so long that she had to bow again and again. 
Instantly, I was tempted to stop writing and to count 
up my royalties; but I resisted, and I wrote on till 
the scenario for the act was completed. The last 
scene at the climax, just before the hero went away, 
— that would give just the faintest touch of pathos, 
all the more effective because everything else in the 
act would be light and fantastic. 

When I had finished writing I could hardly keep 
from shouting for joy. Then I perceived that I had 
written out the scheme for that first act before plan- 
ning the other acts. Now, after finishing the scenario, 
I might have to go back and do the first act all over 
again. I resolved, however, not to let myself be cast 
down, and I dimly realised that I had been hoping to 
be able to go to Alice and tell her that the whole 
scenario was finished. I must get the thing done 
before luncheon. In the afternoon, when we went to 
call on Miss Valentine, that is, if Alice approved, we 
might tell the actress that the scenario was ready. 
For the next fifteen minutes I sat almost motionless. 
There were episodes that could go into that second 
act, but somehow — Again the mysterious influence 
from outside prompted me, providing exactly the 
means I needed to estrange the two lovers, and it 
gave me my climax for the act. In the third act, I 
should have to think up some expedient for uniting 
the lovers and reaching the happy ending. But that 
proved to be easy and with elation I wrote out the 
rest of the scenario, finding, as I nearly always do, 
that as I went on new ideas kept coming. I did not 
stop writing until I had reached the end, and then, 


The Scenario is Written 


99 


leaping from my seat, I threw up both arms into the 
air, and I cried aloud “Hurrah!” 

Alice walked slowly toward the door, and in the 
distance, across the dining-room, I could see the 
alarmed face of Mary, peering at me. 

“What is it?” said Alice, in a tone that conveyed 
a rebuke. 

Conscious of Mary’s observing eye, I replied in a 
subdued voice: “I’ve written the scenario.” I think 
that Mary must have seen that I was observing her, 
for at this point her exceedingly irregular features 
vanished. My enthusiasm at once returned. “It 
has written itself, Alice!” I exclaimed, but keeping 
my voice subdued, for fear of seeing that disrespect- 
ful Irish face again. “It’s just the thing for Lily 
Valentine. Three acts, too. Oh, it came out won- 
derfully!” 

“Read it to me.” 

In face of her imperturbability, I felt my faith in 
the scenario waning; but by sheer force of will I re- 
tained my confident manner. When I had finished, 
I said, “Well?” 

“All good but the last act,” Alice promptly an- 
swered. 

“What ’s the matter with the last act?” 

“There’s nothing interesting in it.” 

“Don’t you call the reunion of the lovers interest- 
ing?” 

“Oh, that’s a mere detail. The audience knows 
the lovers are going to be reunited anyway. The 
process ought to be more complicated.” 

“Well, I think it’s a pleasant, pictorial act,” I 

iofa 


IOO 


Our Best Society 


insisted, lamely, feeling a disappointment the more 
poignant because of my joy of a short time before. 

“You’ll think of more things to put in, dear Ned,” 
Alice said with patronising encouragement. 

Now there are times when I like comfort, and there 
are other times when I resent it. “I believe that 
Lily Valentine will like that act,” I insisted. “It 
gives her a chance to do some pretty work.” 

“She’d be awful in it,” Alice serenely remarked. 
“Having nothing to do but to go mooning about the 
stage in those first scenes will make her dreadfully 
silly and affected.” 

“Oh, well — ” I turned away, hurt, instinctively 
glancing across the dining-room; but, fortunately, 
Mary’s grotesque face was not in sight; if it had 
been, I believe I should have thrown something at it. 

At this moment the door-bell rang. Alice and I 
looked at each other with alarm in our faces; we at 
once became united in spirit against possible invasion. 

“Have you invited any one to lunch?” I said in a 
whisper. 

Alice shook her head. 

“What time is it?” 

“One o’clock.” In response to my thought Alice 
added significantly: “Nothing but cold meat and 
lettuce for lunch.” 

Mary was ploughing through the room. Plough- 
ing is the only word that describes her locomotion. 
To see her walk invariably makes me think of people 
at summer-resorts coming out of the salt-water and 
brushing back their wet hair. 

“Never mind, Mary,” said Alice, with the awfully 


The Scenario is Written 


IOI 


pleasant lilt in her voice that she employs with no 
one but domestics and small children. She rose and 
started for the door. 

I listened anxiously. 

“Why, Miss Henderson!” 

“How do you do, Mrs. Foster?” 

Then I heard the usual feminine osculation and 
laughter. “What simple things amuse women!” I 
reflected, as Miss Henderson passed the door and 
entered the living-room. 

“The dear little place!” Miss Henderson said, in 
the curious gasping manner that I had noticed before 
but somehow had not realised in my consciousness. 
“Oh!” she said in a little cry of rapture, which made 
me wonder what could have occasioned it. 

“Yes, we do think we were lucky to have found 
these old pieces,” Alice replied. “Ned likes to 
browse round the shops in Fourth Avenue and pick 
up things.” Here I listened intently, expecting 
Alice to adopt the cooing tone which she uses in ad- 
dressing me before guests. But she went on uncon- 
cernedly. “Have you been at church?” 

“Yes, we go to St. Philip’s on Second Avenue. 
Father has always gone there, because his father 
went, and, I believe, his grandfather too. It’s aw- 
fully stuffy and musty; but I have to please father. 
He drove home with mother, and I told them I was 
going down to my cousin’s for lunch, Bessie Turner’s 
on Ninth Street. And, as I was passing, I could n’t 
resist the temptation to come and see you.” 

“That’s very nice of you,” Alice exclaimed, with 
the ring of sincerity in her voice. 


102 


Our Best Society 


“I’ve wanted so much to know you, Mrs. Foster, 
to know you really, not as one knows so many people 
here in New York.” 

“Well, I’m not hard to know,” said Alice, with 
the frank laughter that always renews in me the 
realisation of how good and generous she is. If I 
had half -unconsciously feared that she might snub 
this girl for calling on her so unceremoniously, I re- 
pented my injustice. 

“ But you must have a great many people coming 
to see you,” said Letty Henderson. 

“Oh, no. A few literary people. That’s about 
all.” 

“It must be such a privilege to know them,” the 
girl replied in a wistful tone that made me feel like 
laughing aloud. I suppose I ought not to have gone 
on listening ; but I simply could n’t help it. I made 
it clear to myself that I was doing wrong, and then 
I went on doing it quite comfortably. 

“I do enjoy them,” Alice said. “There’s some- 
thing interesting about all of them.” 

Here I wanted to get up and shout. This was a 
good one on Alice after the way she had talked to me 
about writers. Then I reflected that she knew per- 
fectly well I was taking in every word she said, and, 
in the light of that reflection, the joke did not please 
me quite so much. 

“Oh, I think that all people who do things are 
interesting,” Miss Henderson went on. “Most of the 
people I see do nothing worth speaking of, and it is 
so tiresome to have them talking about Bridge all 
the time.” 


The Scenario is Written 


103 


“Yes, there are n’t many new things to be said on 
the subject,” Alice agreed. 

“How interested you must be in your husband’s 
writing!” Miss Henderson went on, and I divined 
that the poor girl, in spite of Alice’s cordiality, was 
growing embarrassed. She had perceived that the 
talk was becoming arid. “Does he discuss it with 
you much?” 

“All the time.” The response was so swift that I 
knew it was primarily intended for my ears. 

“Of course, you must be the greatest help to him.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Alice exclaimed. 

“By your sympathy, I mean. I could see that he 
was a man that needed sympathy. I suppose all 
men of genius do. I suppose they could n’t do their 
work without it.” 

I covered my face with my hands, and I jarred the 
desk with my laughter. I believe that Alice realised 
that things were n’t going quite her way, for at that 
instant she said: 

“Ned is in the apartment somewhere. It won’t 
take me very long to find him.” 

I precipitately retreated and Alice found me in the 
bedroom. 

“She’s come for some purpose,” she said. “I 
can’t quite imagine what it is. But I shall have to 
ask her to stay for luncheon.” 

“Why?” I gasped, incredulously. 

“Because she has explained to me that she wants 
to stay.” 

“What?” I said, in a tense whisper. “Why, I’ve 
heard everything you have said to each other.” 


104 


Our Best Society 


“When she explained that she was going to her 
cousin’s to lunch, she meant that if I ’d ask her to 
lunch here she’d stay. If I don’t ask her, she’ll go 
away without letting me know what she came for.” 

“Whew!” 

“Now come out,” Alice commanded, “and talk to 
her while I go and have some extra things put on the 
table.” 

“I don’t see why we should have any more things 
than we intended to have,” I said resolutely. If 
there is anything I hate in the world, it is providing 
extra things for guests. It spoils hospitality. 

I was prepared to discuss this issue; but Alice 
made further talk impossible by walking straight 
back to her caller. 

“Ned is just finishing the scenario of a play,” she 
said, “and it’s perfectly splendid. He’s done a good 
day’s work already.” Then Alice added apologetic- 
ally: “He usually doesn’t work Sundays; but to- 
day he was so enthusiastic over the idea of writing a 
play for Miss Valentine that he simply had to do it.” 

“Oh,” the girl exclaimed, just as I entered the 
room, “how I should like to hear it!” Then she 
turned to me and offered her hand. 

“Perhaps he ’ll read it to you,” said Alice. 

Miss Henderson’s pretty blond face became lumi- 
nous. “ If he only would ! ” 

“He ’ll read it if you ’ll stay and lunch with us,” 
said Alice. “You will stay, won’t you? Your 
cousin can get along without you for once,” she 
pleaded. 

“Oh, Bessie does n’t know I am coming,” said Miss 


The Scenario is Written 


05 


Henderson, with perfect innocence shining out of her 
blue eyes. Really, I reflected, life — that is, feminine 
life — was altogether too complex for me. 

“Then you must stay here, though I can’t promise 
you much of a luncheon. I ’ll go now and attend to 
things.’’ 

“Do let me go and help you,’’ Miss Henderson said 
eagerly, and in Alice’s eyes I read the consciousness 
that our guest thought we had no maid. I wondered 
what Alice would do. 

“Come along, then. But first you must take your 
things off. Here, we ’ll go into the other room.’’ 

They walked out like two schoolgirls, each clasping 
the other’s waist, and leaving me standing in the 
middle of the room. I made the reflection, as I have 
often done, that women are really much more inter- 
ested in one another than they are in men. I could 
hear those two girls chattering away furiously, as if 
they had known each other all their lives and had met 
after an absence of years. A few minutes later, Miss 
Henderson, introduced by Alice, was busying herself 
about the kitchen and joking with the formidable 
Mary. 

On Sundays we usually lunched at .half -past one ; 
but on this occasion it was nearly quarter-past two 
when we sat down. Over the question as to whether 
we should lunch or dine at noon on Sunday we had 
already had a long struggle with Mary, and, by 
granting to her extraordinary concessions in the way 
of afternoons out, we had triumphed. So the appear- 
ance of an unexpected guest at this time might 
seriously affect our diplomatic relations. As soon as 


io6 


Our Best Society 


I walked into the dining-room, however, and saw 
Mary, I knew that Miss Henderson had conquered 
her affections. When she came wallowing into the 
room, converting the air into salt-water, I perceived 
that Alice had drawn on our Sunday-night dinner in 
order to eke out this meal and to preserve our credit 
with our guest. Now, on Sunday nights we usually 
have tomato bisque, my favorite soup, and, as I 
passed Alice her plate, she gave me one of her most 
quizzical glances. Of course, Miss Henderson 
praised the soup, as well she might. I don’t believe 
that Delmonico or Sherry can make such soup as 
Mary makes under Alice’s supervision. I have often 
told Alice that in case I died she could earn a fortune 
by putting her soup on the market. After the soup, 
we had chicken and creamed potatoes, and our meal 
closed with toasted crackers, Roquefort cheese, and 
coffee. 

We lingered for a long time over the crackers and 
cheese and coffee. “Oh, I don’t think that I have 
ever enjoyed a meal so much!’’ said Miss Henderson. 
“Everything has been so good, and it ’s such a relief 
not to have too many things.’’ 

I resisted the temptation to exchange glances with 
Alice. 

“How you would love our every-day lunches!’’ I 
said maliciously. “We often make a whole meal of 
Irish stew.” 

Miss Henderson laughed in a way plainly meant to 
show Alice that she thought I was delightfully orig- 
inal and witty. “I love Irish stew, too,” she said 
bravely. 


The Scenario is Written 


07 


Alice displayed a serenity worthy of a dowager- 
duchess. “Ned perfectly hates it,’’ she said. “He 
pretends that he doesn’t care what we have to eat; 
but if I don’t have exactly what he wants, he ’s ready 
to tear the house down.’’ 

I tried not to gasp, and, before I could speak, Alice 
went on, placing her napkin on the table. “Let us 
go into the other room. Now, Ned, you must n’t take 
out that horrid pipe. But you may smoke a cigar.” 

“Oh, do let him have his pipe,” Miss Henderson 
pleaded. 

“Don’t mind what Alice says, Miss Henderson. 
It ’s a beautiful pipe.” 

By her manner Alice acquiesced, and, as I filled the 
pipe, I reflected that we were giving this little New 
York Miss what she believed to be a taste of real 
Bohemian life. The thought made me smile faintly. 

“Ned ’s thinking of his comedy. Bring out the 
scenario and read it aloud, Ned.” 

Now, honestly, if there ’s anything that I hate, it 
is reading aloud my things to any one but Alice. I 
had hoped that they had forgotten about that read- 
ing. However, after I got the pipe well going, I put 
a good face on the matter and I read. When I had 
finished, Miss Henderson exclaimed: 

“It seems to me perfectly wonderful! Of course, 
Miss Valentine will be delighted to get it.” She ap- 
pealed to Alice. “Don’t you think it is lovely, Mrs. 
Foster?” 

When Alice had given her opinion, this time 
frankly, Miss Henderson looked disappointed. “But 
their meeting in the moonlight — it ’s so romantic.” 


to8 Our Best Society 

“It seems ridiculous to me,” Alice remarked, with 
a smile. 

“Does it really?” Miss Henderson clasped her 
hands. “I suppose I am no judge. I really don’t 
know much.” 

Then she hesitated. Alice and I saw that she had 
something on her mind but was afraid to say it. We 
gave her time. 

“Do you know what I thought you were going to 
do ?” she said, falteringly, turning to me. “ I thought 
that when the hero, Desmond, came back, in the last 
act, you were going to arrange the situation so that 
he would think Francesca was going to marry the 
other one, Henshaw, you know, the horrid one.” 

We both kept our eyes fixed on the girl. We had 
a premonition that something was coming. 

“Well, then — ” Miss Henderson grew more em- 
barrassed on perceiving our interest, apparently feel- 
ing that she was sure to disappoint us. “You see, I 
thought that his mistake would make him break out.” 

“His feeling sure that he had lost her?” I said 
breathlessly. 

Miss Henderson nodded. 

“He ’s been so — so reticent before. But they say 
— they — ” Here Miss Henderson became too con- 
fused to go on, and Alice rushed to her rescue. 

“The most reticent people sometimes speak out 
when it ’s too late!” Alice cried in a manner that for 
her was extraordinarily dramatic. I sub-consciously 
resolved to mimic it later. 

Miss Henderson looked intensely grateful for the 
help. “That ’s exactly what I mean,” she said. 


The Scenario is Written 


109 


I glanced with delight from Alice to our guest and 
then back to Alice. 

“Why did n’t I think of that before?” I said. 

Miss Henderson’s face beamed with happiness. 
“Do you really like the idea?” she incredulously 
asked. 

“Like it?” I echoed. “You have saved the act! 
You ’ve saved the play!” 

Miss Henderson’s face grew scarlet. “You see,” 
she said, talking to cover her embarrassment, “Fran- 
cesca would — she would admire Desmond all the more 
—for ” 

“For showing that he had some spirit,” I almost 
shouted. “Of course! Of course! I can make a 
stunning scene out of that.” 

Alice smiled compassionately. “Oh, these vain 
authors!” 

“It’s all your work, Miss Henderson. We’ll 
divide the royalties.” 

Here the girl became plainly alarmed. She did not 
even dare to give my foolish little joke its proper 
recognition. “I ’ll be so pleased if it helps,” she said, 
her voice trembling. Then she suddenly asked, 
“When are you going to read it to Miss Valentine?” 

Alice explained that we were to call on the actress 
that afternoon and Miss Henderson rose. 

But Alice would not let her go. Instead, she con- 
veyed to me by her manner that I was to withdraw 
for an interval. So, making work an excuse, I left 
the room. For an hour I could hear those two young 
women whispering like conspirators. Meanwhile, I 
worked on the new version of the third act. In my 


I IO 


Our Best Society 


enthusiasm I wrote bits of dialogue for the scene that 
Miss Henderson had suggested. I could hardly keep 
from rushing into the next room and reading what I 
had written; but I realised that such a proceeding 
would seem childish. Before Miss Henderson I must 
maintain a proper dignity. At last, by the increasing 
volume of the conspiring voices I knew the two girls 
had risen from their seats and were preparing to 
separate. Alice presently called me. 

When I explained how I had been occupying the 
time, Miss Henderson cried: “Oh, I do hope the 
piece will be a great success!” 

“Ah, you know the adage in the theatrical busi- 
ness: ‘Any one can write a play, but it takes a genius 
to get one produced.’” 

As Miss Henderson left the house she embraced 
Alice fervently: 

“Good-bye, dear Alice,” she said. 

“Good-bye, Letty dear.” 

I restrained my astonishment till the door had 
closed behind the girl. Then, generously oblivious 
of my own affairs, I said: “Explain.” 

Alice walked into the den. “What?” she asked, 
with a lovely representation of innocence. 

“This outburst of affection and familiarity. I 
know it was n’t on account of Society’s contribution 
to Dramatic Literature.” 

“Oh, that!” 

“Well?” 

“It ’s just what I thought. It ’s about Teddy.” 

“What ’s Teddy to us?” 

“She ’s afraid of him. She wants me to keep near 


The Scenario is Written 


1 1 1 


her to-morrow. She dreads going to Ardsley with 
him.” 

“What in the deuce does she go for then?” 

“Her mother won’t let her refuse.” 

“And she wants you for a watch -dog. Is that all 
she came here for?” 

“Ah, my dear Ned,” Alice remarked patiently, 
“you don’t understand. She ’s reaching out for 
help, poor girl.” 

“And she ’s found you,” I sarcastically added. 

“She ’s reaching out to me because — well, I sup- 
pose because I ’m different from a good many of the 
women she knows, and because she trusts me. She ’s 
taken a fancy to me.” 

“What ’s the matter with Teddy?” 

“She does n’t like him — and — and he ’s wicked.” 

“How can any one be wicked who is so rich as he 
is?” 

“Ned, you are very tiresome when you try to be 
cynical.” 

“Are n’t the Hendersons rich?” 

“ Letty says her father used to be. Now they have 
a dreadful time keeping up.” 

“What does the old man do?” 

“Wall Street — but he ’s unlucky.” 

“ And the old lady is manoeuvring to catch Teddy ? ” 

“That’s not a nice way of expressing it, Ned. 
But it ’s somewhere near the truth.” 

“Ah, I ’m a deep observer.” 

“Yes, Ned dear, you can see anything that is 
pointed out to you.” 

“Well, don’t you think you are rather rash?” 


I 12 


Our Best Society 


“How?” 

“Interfering.” 

“I ’m not interfering. Only I can’t turn away 
from the poor child when she needs some one to 
confide in.” 

“You are taking a big contract on your hands, my 
dear.” 

“What would you have me do — refuse my sym- 
pathy?” 

Alice came toward me and smiled up into my face. 
“Now I ’ll listen to the amended scenario. I want 
to hear it all over again. Was n’t it lovely her com- 
ing in to-day? It seems like Providence. And, 
before I forget, there ’s some tomato bisque left for 
dinner,” she said. 

“Oh, that throws an entirely different light on the 
matter!” I exclaimed. 


CHAPTER VIII 


WE MEET MISS VALENTINE^ MANAGER 

L ETTY HENDERSON’S visit offered many points 
of departure and topics for comment. Unfortu- 
nately, however, we found that if we were to call on 
Lily Valentine that afternoon we should do well to 
begin preparation at once. 

“You know it takes you ages to get into your frock 
coat,” Alice said warningly. 

I groaned. Why I hate to assume afternoon mag- 
nificence I cannot tell. Arrayed and in public I feel 
a self-complacency and a peace of mind that no other 
costume can confer on me. Indeed, on such occa- 
sions, I seem to have grown two inches taller. 

Once in the street, the clear, cold atmosphere of 
the perfect autumn day inspired us to walk rapidly. 
Cold weather always makes me feel happy: it fairly 
lifts me to another plane ; it often brings back to my 
mind bits of poetry that I supposed I had forgotten: 
sometimes it inspires me with the desire to sing, 
right in the street, too. When I get into one of these 
moods of elation Alice usually adopts her reproving 
manner, though I know that she responds to them 
and enjoys them with me. 

At Fifth Avenue we found an enormous crowd, 
nearly all assembled on one side of the street. “Let 


Our Best Society 


114 

us walk on the other side,” said Alice, “where we can 
see the people — unless — ” she added carelessly, “un- 
less you insist on being a part of the show.” 

“We ’ll sacrifice the pictorial effect,” I agreed, 
keeping to the left. 

“It reminds me of the Champs Ely sees,” Alice re- 
marked, making a reference to the two years she 
lived abroad which, out of respect for my feelings, is 
rare. She knows how I long to get over there and 
how out of it I feel when people discuss in my presence 
their European experiences. I have been put down 
so often by people who have been abroad. Some- 
times I think I will go to Europe even if I have to 
take the first steamer back, just to be able to say I 
have been there. 

“Only in place of the fat and greasy middle-aged 
Frenchmen with their funny plug-hats and with their 
families tagging behind them,” Alice went on, “they 
nearly all look young and dapper.” 

“Yes,” I assented, surveying the surging mass, 
“even those who are n’t young have something 
youthful about them, perhaps, as you say, because 
they are so dapper. Only you must n’t say ‘ plug- 
hats,’ dearest. I ’m afraid you ’ve caught that from 

^ _ 99 

me. 

“What shall I say?” Alice asked. 

“Well, it ’s very hard to know,” I replied, with a 
humility for which I gave myself full credit. “ Silk- 
hat is tabooed and top-hat sounds affected. In fact 
I make it a rule in my writing never to mention the 
article.” 

“I should think you ’d be afraid of refining your- 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 115 

self out of the vocabulary. Your list of words to be 
avoided grows larger every day. If you don’t look 
out, you ’ll have to write in the sign language.” 

“ I suppose that social prejudice has crept into that, 
too,” I said with a sigh. “What a fearful slavery 
the refinements of civilisation are! They merely 
multiply the channels of pain. Did you notice in 
Walter Hart’s play the reference one of the characters 
made to a Prince Albert coat? I nearly fainted 
away.” 

“Well, it ’s a great thing to have the courage of 
your vulgarity. I really think that is one reason why 
Walter Hart is so successful.” 

“ But when one is naturally refined, it is impossible 
to have that sort of courage, dearest,” I retorted, and 
I would have gone on in this vein if I had not become 
aware that Alice had stopped listening. There are 
moments when Alice suddenly throws up barriers be- 
tween us, invisible to the naked eye, but plain enough 
to the trained married consciousness. 

“Everybody looks so prosperous in New York,” 
she said. “And in Fifth Avenue, on a Sunday after- 
noon, they all seem like millionaires.” 

At that moment a fear, developed by my observa- 
tion of those smart, handsome young men who were 
walking so furiously down the avenue, as if about to 
keep important engagements, shaped itself into a 
conviction. “Ah!” I said in a shocked voice. 

“What?” said Alice, looking swiftly about in 
search of the cause of my exclamation. 

“My frock-coat is n’t right.” 

Alice surveyed it critically. 


1 16 


Our Best Society 


“What ’s the matter with it?” 

“It ’s at least three inches too short.” 

1 ‘ What of it ? Who ’d notice ? ’ ’ 

“Everybody would notice — everybody who knows. 
Besides, the consciousness of it detracts from my 
aplomb .” 

Then Alice delivered a magnificent shot. “It ’s in 
keeping with my gown.” 

“I was just thinking that of all the gowns ” 

“It ’s two years old.” 

“Exactly the age of my frock-coat,” I pathetically 
remarked. “After all,” I went on, “age is a purely 
relative thing, isn’t it? Now ” 

“Every woman knows that,” Alice interrupted. 
“That ’s one reason why so many women are crazy 
to marry early. An unmarried woman is old at 
twenty-five. A woman who loses her husband at 
forty is considered a young widow.” 

Our interest in the crowd did not deter us from ob- 
serving the people in the landaus and hansom-cabs 
that dashed past us; but we agreed that, from our 
exalted social point of view, the people who thus ex- 
ploited themselves were not of a quality that we 
could approve. Among them were many women of 
a hectic radiance, driving alone or in twos, their mil- 
linery floating ostentatiously in the air, and their eyes 
returning the gaze of the pedestrians with a glittering 
coldness. These women we did not discuss. There 
are subjects that Alice and I never mention. 

As we turned into Lily Valentine’s street, I could 
not resist the impulse to give Alice’s gloved hand a 
faint pressure, It seemed years since the little excite- 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 117 


ment and the misunderstanding of the night before, 
and I had a prophetic feeling that such a cloud, no 
matter how slight, could never come between us again. 
With confidence we walked up the steep brown-stone 
steps in the long ugly block of brick houses and I 
pressed the electric bell. As the maid opened the door 
we saw Miss Valentine running down the front stairs. 

“ Well!” the actress exclaimed, “is n’t this wonder- 
ful?” and I noticed that the maid looked surprised. 

Miss Valentine gave both hands to Alice in what 
struck me as a rather theatrical welcome. “Mr. 
Holbrook, my manager, is here. He went out to his 
country-place in Jersey after the performance last 
night and he only read about the accident this noon. 
So he must have come straight up on a train. I 
suppose he ’s scared blue. He ’s in there. I have n’t 
seen him yet. Oh, I ’m so glad you ’ve come. Mr. 
Foster, you look as if you ’d grown six inches. Are 
you wearing high-heeled shoes?” 

I was rather dazzled by this rapid firing; but not 
too dazzled to perceive that Miss Valentine wore an 
extraordinarily beautiful costume. It was loose and 
flowing and it seemed to be made of some filmy ma- 
terial, white with little blue and white flowers worked 
in it. I believe that she knew that I was observing 
the dress, for she said: “I ’m supposed to be an in- 
valid. That is, I ’ve been lying down since I got 
back from Mrs. Smith’s, and I have n’t seen a soul 
though a lot of people have been here. Mrs. Smith 
would n’t let me get up till twelve o’clock, the silly 
old thing. I believe she kept me in bed so that she 
could lecture me about the proper way to take care 


ii8 Our Best Society 

of my health. Now do come in and meet the great 
manager/’ 

We passed through the hall to the library at the 
back of the house. It was lined with low bookcases, 
and the walls, covered with red burlap, were decor- 
ated with old prints and with photographs of theat- 
rical celebrities. In one corner stood a young man 
with an exceedingly good-natured face and a slim 
figure, somewhat extravagantly dressed. 

“Ah, there you are!” exclaimed Miss Valentine, 
with the air of quoting from a play. 

“So you ’re alive!” said the manager, walking for- 
ward into the light from one of the windows, and then 
I perceived, with some relief, that he was not so very 
young, after all. I confess that I dislike meeting 
successful men who are younger than myself. I sup- 
pose that is a low trait. I wonder if other men have 
it, and if they are always comparing men’s ages with 
their own. 

When we had been introduced, Miss Valentine 
waved her arm toward me. 

“This is the young man who was in the cab with 
me,” she explained. 

“Then it wasn’t Hart?” the manager asked, 
plainly with relief. 

“Thank Heavens, no! That ’s just about as accu- 
rate as reporters usually are. After the work Walter’s 
been doing at rehearsals, an experience like that 
might have given him nervous prostration. Just 
reading that he had been in the runaway nearly 
threw him into a fit. He ’s the most sympathetic 
thing, poor Walter,” Miss Valentine rattled on, turn- 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 119 

in g to Alice. “I ’ve been talking to him over the 
’phone.” 

“Well, naturally,” said Holbrook with his beaming 
smile, “Walter doesn’t want his royalties shut off. 
We ’re not putting in an understudy in this piece.” 

“ He said he ’d come down to see me if he were n’t 
an invalid.” 

“Too much supper last night, I suppose,” said 
Holbrook, radiating again. He seemed to extract 
amusement out of everything. 

“No, he ’s got one of his colds, poor dear. The 
real trouble is that Walter ’s been killing himself with 
work. I told him that, as he could n’t come to see 
me. I ’d go 10 see him. Suppose we all go,” she said, 
including Alice and me in her glance. 

Holbrook broke into a loud laugh. To him life 
seemed to be a perpetual joke. “Lily, you’re a 
wonder,” he said. “I expected to find you laid up in 
bed, with a half-dozen doctors around you, and here 
you are ready to go chasing around town as if nothing 
had happened.” 

“Well, it ’s excitement that keeps me alive,” said 
Miss Valentine. Then she seemed to become aware 
that she had not been giving us sufficient attention, 
and she turned to speak to Alice. 

Holbrook, however, was not going to be pushed 
out of the game like that. “And after all those no- 
tices, too!” he said with a roar. 

I reflected with astonishment that those notices 
might cost him thousands of dollars. And yet, he 
could be merry over them. Such a sense of humour 
must be a fortune in itself. 


120 


Our Best Society 


“Weren’t they awful?’’ Miss Valentine echoed. 
“Mrs. Smith did n’t want to let me read them,’’ she 
said, addressing Alice. “So, of course, I knew they 
must be roasts, and I told her if she did n’t have them 
sent up, I ’d get out of bed and go out and bring 
them myself.’’ She turned toward the manager again 
and her face instantly reflected the radiance of his 
smile. “Do you think we can make ’em take it?” 
she asked, as if speaking of a medicine. 

“Oh, yes,’’ he replied easily. “They ’ll take any- 
thing from Hart nowadays.” 

“But on the road,” Miss Valentine insisted, and, 
involuntarily, I exchanged glances with Alice. 

Holbrook nodded his head with unshaken confi- 
dence. “Oh, it’ll hit ’em hard on the road.” It 
was doubtless his optimism that made him appear so 
youthful. At moments he seemed twenty-five; but 
he must have been at least forty. “ The jays will like 
the high life, and the dressing, and all that.” 

The shock of hearing the expression the high life 
made me glance at Alice again, but she was keeping 
her eyes resolutely fixed on the actress. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Lily Valentine pensively re- 
marked, holding two fingers at her lips. Then she 
suddenly faced me. “Have you thought of your 
scenario?” she said. 

“Oh, yes, I ’ve thought of it,” I replied, somewhat 
ill at ease, owing to my instinctive dishonesty in 
presence of Alice. 

Nevertheless, Alice came to my rescue. “He ’s 
thought of nothing else all day long.” 

“We’ve had three heads working on it,” I re- 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 121 


marked, boldly resisting the temptation not to give 
Letty Henderson credit. If I did not mention Miss 
Henderson now, I might never mention her. 

Miss Valentine did not seem impressed by the ref- 
erence to this aggregation of brains. She stared im- 
pressively at her manager. 

“Mr. Foster has a great play up his sleeve,” she 
said. 

For the first time since our introduction, Holbrook 
let his eyes rest on me. Then I was aware of a swift 
scrutiny that seemed to pierce my innermost con- 
sciousness. He nervously shifted his seat, showing 
by his manner that I had assumed an importance in 
his estimation. By the clairvoyance that only 
married people can understand, I knew that Alice and 
I were thinking the same thought: he had taken us 
for Miss Valentine’s society-friends! 

Miss Valentine clasped her hands and leaned for- 
ward toward me in the attitude that she had assumed 
several times the night before during the play. I re- 
called that I had seen her photographed in it. “ Have 
you been working on the scenario?” Before I could 
reply, the actress went on: “ Have you written it out 
really? Perhaps you Ve brought it?” 

“I Ve brought it,” said Alice, with an ease that, at 
the moment, seemed to me one of the most remarkable 
feats in the world. For some ridiculous reason I felt 
as if I were about to drop out of my chair, and I was 
reminded of the times when, before callers, my 
mother used to discuss my appearance and the pecul- 
iarities that made me different from any child that 
ever lived. 


122 


Our Best Society 


“Oh, read it. Read it aloud.” Miss Valentine 
urged. “If you only knew how I love Francesca, 
and how I long to be her.” 

I felt an inner elation too great to allow me to be 
shocked by the solecism. I observed, however, that 
Holbrook was rapidly losing interest and growing 
resentful. He was assigning me to a place among the 
playwriting bores who besieged him at his office with 
impossible plays and he was plainly disgusted at 
being trapped in this way. I suspected, too, that 
Miss Valentine was enjoying his discomfiture. His 
face had lost its radiance and had become blank ; he 
actually looked older and plainer. 

Alice passed me the manuscript. When I had 
finished reading the outline of the first act, Miss 
Valentine rose, gave the pillow on her chair several 
vigorous punches, and said: “Why, that ’s very in- 
teresting. It ’s very interesting.” 

The tone, more than the words, indicated such 
surprise that I wondered why in the world the girl 
had asked me to read. What had she expected? 
I made a mental note that, if I were not so busy, I 
should have a right to be indignant. However, I 
went on more animatedly, keeping an eye on Hol- 
brook, who was enveloping me in that fearfully 
piercing gaze. I saw that he felt determined not to 
like my scenario if he could possibly help it and that 
it was to be a battle between us. So, though I ap- 
parently focussed my attention on the manuscript, I 
was really focussing my will on him. When I had 
finished, he sat unmoved, and I could not decide 
whether I had lost or won. 


We Meet Miss Valentine's Manager 123 

Lily Valentine, however, broke out into enthusiasm. 
“The last act!” she exclaimed. “They all fall down 
in the last act. But you ’ve kept it up. How in the 
world did you do it? How clever you must be!” 
She almost hurled herself on Holbrook’s chair. 
“Wake up, you foolish man! Now isn’t that the 
best scenario you ’ve heard for years?” 

To my great relief, Holbrook allowed his blankness 
to be momentarily dispersed by his former radiance. 
“It ’s a very pretty scenario,” he said, in a neutral 
tone, and he eyed me as bank-cashiers eye strangers 
who present checks. 

“Ever written any plays before?” he asked, his 
manner making it plain that he had ceased to meet 
me on a social basis and had got down to business, 
where no advantage could be expected. 

When I had shaken my head, Miss Valentine burst 
out: “But he has a genius for play -writing. If he 
did n’t he never could have held it up like that in the 
last act. Oh, I was afraid you were going to let it 
drop,” she said, with horror in her tone. 

Instantly I perceived that if I did not then and 
there speak of Letty Henderson I could never look 
Alice in the face again. A clammy perspiration 
seemed to break out all over me. I was afraid that 
I might not be able to force myself to speak. Then 
I said, with surprise at the fulness of my voice: 

“I don’t deserve credit for that.” 

Miss Valentine waved her hand toward Alice. 
“Oh, it ’s Mrs. Foster!” she exclaimed. 

“It ’s Miss Henderson,” I said, and, somewhat 
astonished, I found that it was easy to speak now. 


124 


Our Best Society 


“I wrote another third act and Mrs. Foster didn’t 
like it. I can see now that it was very weak. When 
I read the scenario of the act to Miss Henderson this 
afternoon she gave it just the twist it needed.” 

‘‘Well, is n’t she a dear!” said Lily Valentine. 

‘‘It ’s something to recognise good ideas when you 
hear them,” said Holbrook, and I experienced a sud- 
den change of feeling toward him. ‘‘It ’s about as 
valuable as being able to think them up yourself.” 

These last words gave me a sensation that was just 
a little painful. They made me recognise that I was 
entering a world where, without shame, ideas were 
borrowed and even stolen. In my own business of 
novel- writing, we tried so desperately to be original! 

‘‘It’s wonderful, the way Walter Hart picks up 
ideas,” said Miss Valentine. ‘‘Everything under the 
sun suggests them to him. Often when I ’ve been 
walking along the street with him, or working on the 
stage at rehearsal, something will be said or done, and 
Whoop! Walter says, ‘I can use that!’ And he never 
thinks of writing the ideas down. They just pop into 
his head, and they stay there till they ’re ready to 
pop out.” 

Lily Valentine rose from her seat and darted 
toward the door. ‘‘It won’t take me two minutes to 
change my gown and — Bing! I ’ll be ready to go out 
with you. Meanwhile,” — she extended her arms in 
theatrical benediction — “Author and Manager, confer! 
And oh, Mrs. Foster, you don’t want to stay here 
with these men, do you? Come up with me.” 

‘‘Of course!” Alice said, laughing, and away they 
went, leaving both Holbrook and me mighty uncom- 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 125 

fortable at being confronted with each other. The 
situation prompted Holbrook to defend himself by- 
offering me a cigar. “Miss Valentine won’t mind,” 
he said carelessly. 

Now, I like to smoke a fragrant, mild cigar; but 
that cigar, as I at once perceived, was a terror. It 
was long and black and twisted, altogether villainous- 
looking. I knew it would make me feel miserable; 
but I had a silly feeling that if I did refuse it, I should 
in some way lose my grip on Holbrook. 

I took it with what I intended to be an indifferent 
air and I fiercely bit off the end. If Holbrook had 
intended to rebuke me, he could not have resorted to 
more effective means than he employed. With the 
deliberateness of a great actor, he rose from his seat, 
approached a small table where a silver tray stood, 
drew from his trousers pocket a silver-mounted pen- 
knife, and, with the tip of one of the blades, he deli- 
cately beheaded his cigar over the tray. Meanwhile, 
I was holding my cigar in my mouth, getting a fore- 
taste of the ordeal to come. I had a sickly remem- 
brance of those pleasant mild Havanas that I had 
smoked at the Van Zandts’. 

Holbrook cast a glance around the room and, not 
discovering matches, he drew a silver match-box from 
his silk-waistcoat, and passed me a light, letting his 
fingers lightly touch mine. Every move he made 
had the ease of perfect confidence. Never had I been 
so impressed by an exhibition of the successful man 
of the world, and never had I felt more envious and 
resentful. Walter Hart’s manner had depressed me 
without exciting envy; but, while resenting Hoi- 


126 


Our Best Society 


brook’s manner, I felt a hopeless ambition to be 
exactly like him. 

When we had re-adjusted ourselves in our chairs, 
settling into the comfortable attitude that men take 
when they are smoking, Holbrook said: “How long 
have you been writing plays?” 

I had just taken a deep inhalation, and received 
the first assault. A moment before, I reflected, I had 
felt so well. 

“I ’ve never written one,” I replied, and from 
sheer awkwardness I had to take another long puff. 
I would not allow myself to take the short nervous 
puffs of the amateur smoker, anxious to get the cigar 
out of his mouth before it bit him. 

“Well, there ’s a lot of money in play- writing,” 
Holbrook remarked, throwing back his head, his eyes, 
face, and his whole body expressing seraphic peace, 
deepening in proportion to the strength of the tobacco. 

“Yes, if you hit it off ! ” I said, with a wretched pre- 
tence of humour. I could see my image in the long 
gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall, and I kept a 
sharp watch on my complexion. 

“Oh, of course.” In his voice there was a hint of 
impatience with my truism. 

Then a long silence followed, in which I watched a 
curtain of smoke form between us. 

“I ’m pretty worried about this piece of ours,” 
Holbrook went on, and, to my alarm, I noticed that 
his voice seemed a few feet farther away than it had 
been before. “Of course, I didn’t want to let her 
know,” he explained, with a nod, designed to indicate 
the actress upstairs. 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 127 

I could not think of anything to say, and after a 
few moments, it occurred to me that my silence was 
rather impressive. At any rate, it gave me a few 
moments in which to recuperate. I looked forward 
with dread to the moment when I should have to 
tackle that cigar again. Suppose, I thought, I should 
rise and quietly place the cigar on the table. That 
might be taken by Holbrook as an indication of dis- 
approval and might give me a distinct advantage, even 
though it would undoubtedly incur his secret resent- 
ment ; but I felt as if I could no more cross the room 
at that moment than I could walk along the ceiling. 
I was indissolubly attached to the chair, my inclination 
being to sink deeper and deeper within its embrace. 

“If this thing doesn’t go, we’ve got to have 
something for Lily,’’ said Holbrook, with determina- 
tion, and I raised my arm mechanically and placed 
that infernal tobacco between my lips again. I 
realised that I was in a very delicate position; I 
naturally could not criticise Walter Hart’s play, and 
I must not show too great an eagerness to secure a 
commission from Holbrook. 

“I don’t know just what Hart’s doing now; but I 
think he could make a mighty fine play out of that 
scenario of yours.’’ 

At the sound of these words, my heart gurgled. 
These are the only words that describe the sensation. 
For protection, I kept the cigar in my mouth, but I 
did not puff on it. 

“You two fellows might get together and see if you 
can’t write a play in collaboration. Would you be 
willing to do that?” 


128 


Our Best Society 


“Oh, yes,” I replied, and then I called myself a fool 
and a coward, and various other uncomplimentary 
epithets. I wondered if Holbrook had cleverly 
planned his suggestion with regard to Hart’s using 
my scenario in preparation for the idea that we col- 
laborate, or if he had merely made a chance shot. In 
either case, I should have a sorry report to make to 
Alice. The consciousness of my stupidity caused me 
to take several fierce puffs of that cigar. My nerves 
began to vibrate, like the wires of a piano out of tune ; 
a fine perspiration broke out on my forehead. Again 
I looked into the mirror, and, either from the effect of 
the afternoon light, modified by the shades of the 
window, or from my nervousness, or both, I saw that 
my face had turned to a shade of pale green. 

With each puff the strength of that cigar had gone 
on increasing and I had reached the point where only 
one-half was left, a remnant of intense vitality. I 
resolved not to force my lips to touch the thing again, 
and I looked vaguely about for a receptacle into 
which I could toss it without being observed. But 
Holbrook would not take his eyes off me. I felt my- 
self sinking into a sickly lethargy, from which it 
seemed I should never recover ; my arms had doubled 
their natural weight and my legs ached. 

“I don’t know how he ’d be to work with,” Hol- 
brook said at last. I had begun vaguely to wonder if 
he would ever speak again, and I noted with surprise 
that he still appeared to be perfectly at ease. “He ’s 
written a couple of plays with Jimmy Burnham. Oh, 
they were adaptations!” he added, shrugging his 
shoulders. “Jimmy is a great French and German 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 129 


sharp, and he ’s always chasing after foreign plays to 
be fixed up for this country.” The manager smiled 
knowingly. “Most of ’em have to be washed a good 
bit before we can do anything with ’em.” He stroked 
his close-shaven chin with one hand. “I don’t be- 
lieve Hart would care especially about collaborating. 
Still you might try.” 

At that moment I was not in the mood to contem- 
plate anything that cost an effort. I had reached the 
plane in my consciousness characterised by extreme 
ugliness. The hatred that I felt for Holbrook for 
having given me that cigar annihilated all other feel- 
ings. I was no longer afraid of him ; I had no further 
ambition to impress him. I merely felt miserable, 
and I resentfully wondered what I should do when 
Alice and Lily Valentine came down and I should 
have to rise from my chair. At that instant they 
both appeared. Holbrook leaped from his seat, and 
I made a feeble pretence of rising, by resting both 
hands on the sides of the chair and leaning forward. 

“Mrs. Foster and I have a fine idea!” Lily Valen- 
tine exclaimed. In her tight-fitting black suit, she 
looked slimmer and more delicate than I had ever 
seen her. I wondered how so frail a girl could endure 
the strain of acting night after night for a whole 
season. 

“What ’s that?” Holbrook asked, his face beaming 
again. One might have imagined that the girl had 
made a brilliant sally. 

“We think that Walter Hart and Mr. Foster ought 
to collaborate!” 

Holbrook became convulsed with laughter. That ’s 
9 


130 Our Best Society 

exactly what I proposed a minute ago!” he cried, in 
a loud voice. 

“ Oh! ” said Miss Valentine in a tone suggesting that 
the idea had lost its novelty and, in some remote 
way, conveying a rebuke. Holbrook immediately 
drooped. 

“I don’t feel by any means certain that he ’ll do 
it,” the actress went on. “Still you might ask him, 
Mr. Manager.” 

“Well, I guess I ’ll leave that to you!” Holbrook 
exclaimed, recovering his good-humour. 

I rose heavily and, as we started to leave the room, 
I rested my hand lightly on Alice’s arm. “What ’s 
the matter?” she whispered. 

“Are you going to walk?” Holbrook asked, and we 
were all bunched together so that I had no chance to 
allay Alice’s anxiety. 

“Yes. Why not, on this lovely afternoon?” said 
the actress. 

“I have a cab out here with room for two in it. 
You and Mrs. Foster might take it, and Foster and I 
will walk.” 

“We don’t want your old cab,” the actress impa- 
tiently replied. “We ’ll meet you over at Walter’s.” 

“Oh, but I ’m not going,” Holbrook said, with a 
display of his fine white teeth. “Wallie has seen 
enough of me for the past few days. I ’ve got to 
have a heart-to-heart talk with him to-morrow and 
I ’ll give him a little time to get ready for it.” 

“I suppose that means cutting and more rehears- 
ing?” Miss Valentine lamented. “Well, good-bye,” 
she added, with a sudden assumption of haughtiness, 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 1 3 1 


and, as Holbrook pulled back the door of the cab, we 
walked unceremoniously away. It seemed to me a 
curious situation; but just then I felt too wretched 
to trust my judgment ; I should have to let Alice in- 
terpret it to me later. I was content to walk on 
heavily. I knew then how our elephantine domestic 
must feel as she ploughed her way through life. 

“Isn’t he a very enterprising person?’’ said Miss 
Valentine, addressing me, as we turned into Fifth 
Avenue, and I was struck by the oddity of the 
remark. “Oh, he ’s desperately clever,’’ Miss Valen- 
tine went on, with an air of aloofness that indicated a 
lack of interest. Then she added, as if definitely dis- 
missing the manager from the conversation: “I do 
hope we sha’n’t find poor Walter sick in bed. I really 
could n’t tell how he felt from what he said over the 
telephone. I believe he ’d act or make jokes on his 
death -bed.” She surveyed the crowded avenue, 
taking a deep inhalation of the cold autumn air, 
which I was inwardly blessing for its restorative 
qualities. It was not nearly so hard to walk straight 
now as I had feared it would be. By keeping my 
lips slightly parted and by breathing quickly, I 
seemed to cleanse my whole system. Alice, I knew, 
was covertly watching me and I suspected that she 
had divined the cause of the trouble. 

“Ah, New York, New York! How I love it!” 
Lily Valentine rhapsodised. “People who can live 
here all the time have no idea how they are blessed. 
Every one of them ought to be obliged to spend a few 
months of the year, as we actor-people do, on the 
road. Then they ’d be properly grateful.” 


132 


Our Best Society 


If I had felt well enough, I should have argued that 
New Yorkers appreciated their city altogether too 
much ; they were as provincial as any people in the 
world. Lily Valentine had unwittingly touched on 
one of my favourite topics ; but I was hoarding rather 
than expending my energy, and I let the remark pass. 

“Ugh! the thought of going out on the road makes 
me sick!” the actress went on. We had fallen in 
with the procession, and all along the line it was 
plain that our companion was recognised. She held 
her head high and swung forward, looking very tall 
and angular, and either unaware of the people who 
tried to bow to her or deliberately ignoring them. I 
noted her demeanour as an amusing exhibition of the 
effect of public success on extreme youth. How de- 
lightful it must be, I thought, to be so important and 
so young at the same time! 

“Still it must be a comfort to have so much variety 
in your life,” I heard Alice say, as some pushing young 
men, in order to get a good look at the actress, walked 
between us. 

“Variety!” Lily Valentine repeated, and I hurried 
to catch up, fearing to lose any of her talk. “When 
you have nothing but variety, it becomes as terrible 
as monotony. And, after all, we don’t have variety, 
really. The small towns we visit are about all alike, 
and, from the front, the audiences look exactly the 
same. The only point of any importance to us is 
whether there ’s a good hotel in the town. But New 
York!” The actress sighed rapturously and gazed 
across the street at St. Patrick’s Cathedral: the wide 
open doors gave a distant view of the gleaming altar, 


We Meet Miss Valentine’s Manager 133 

making a contrast to all the worldliness about us 
that appealed to my literary sense. “ Every brick in 
the streets I love! Some day, when I get old and 
played out as an actress, I ’m going to hire a room 
over a shop on Broadway near Thirty-fourth Street, 
and I ’m going to spend all my time hanging out of 
the window.” 

Before we reached Walter Hart’s house, I felt very 
much better, almost equal, in fact, to sustaining a 
call on the great dramatist. Miss Valentine turned 
at the tall iron gate with the low steps leading to the 
entrance. The house was so different from the long 
stretch of hideousness on each side of the street that 
I had often observed it with curiosity. 

As we stood in the little porch, the actress whis- 
pered, apparently fearing that Hart would hear her: 
“This house is Walter all over! Such a place you ’ve 
never seen in your life. Even out here you see how 
fantastic and pretty it is. No one in New York but 
Walter Hart would think of having the house built 
back like this, and making this attractive approach. 
And did you notice what a nice effect he has made 
with common, ordinary brick, and how he has varied 
the old-fashioned rigidity of the colonial architecture, 
by those little figures he has had built into the wall ? 
He planned it all himself and, instead of going to 
Europe one summer, as he always does, he stayed at 
home to watch the architect and workmen. That 
poor architect! Walter must have driven him crazy. 
When the architect would say, ‘Oh, such a thing is 
impossible, Mr. Hart!’ Walter would put his hands 
in his pockets and rise up and down on his toes and 


34 


Our Best Society 


say, ‘Well, go ahead and do it.’ He gives beautiful 
impersonations of that architect.” 

Miss Valentine might have gone on indefinitely with 
these revelations if, at that moment, the butler had 
not opened the door and admitted us. We entered 
an extraordinary room: literally a marble hall, with 
a fountain in the centre, from which a gentle stream 
of water flowed, descending upon a mass of large, 
bright-coloured flowers that kept merrily bobbing 
From the back ran a flight of broad marble-steps, at 
the head of which, as soon as the door closed behind 
us, a strange figure appeared, dressed all in flowered 
silk, loose, light-grey, bloomer-like trousers, and a 
long, flowing reddish-brown coat. 

Instantly I was reminded of a Chinese mandarin. 

“Oh, is that you, Lily? I ’m delighted to see you. 
And you ’ve brought that haughty young man.” 

Hart had come forward noiselessly, as if his feet 
were clad in sandals, and he gave Alice a smile of 
welcome. 

“I ’m not supposed to be seeing any one to-day,” 
he explained. “But I ’m delighted that you ’re here 
just the same.” 

Then I suspected that he had been listening over 
the stairs. 


CHAPTER IX 


WALTER HART ENTERTAINS US 

S Hart offered a limp hand to each of us, the 



smooth-faced servant looked on with a sus- 


picious respectfulness. He was fat and uncouth, and 
he wore an old black suit and an ancient collar that 
seemed oddly out of place in all that magnificence. 
Beneath his servile mask, I divined an amused in- 
terest in the daily spectacle that Walter Hart’s life 
created for him. 

“George will take your hat,” said Hart, with a 
lackadaisical glance from me to the servant, and he 
led the way up the winding marble stairs. In the 
upper hall an armoured figure confronted us, its 
polished surface reflecting the electric light that shone 
from the ceiling. The sides of the hall were hung 
with tapestry, and an enormous Persian rug nearly 
covered the hardwood floor. To the right extended 
the dining-room ; the walls and the hangings, of a deep 
red, with the mahogany table and sideboard gleaming 
with glass and silver, made an effect of almost op- 
pressive luxury. The drawing-room, that ran to the 
left, was long and narrow, after the conventional New 
York type, but with the rigidity of its lines broken 
by the arrangement of the Empire furniture. 

As we entered, Hart turned on the electric light in 


135 


136 


Our Best Society 


a dozen bulbs, including those in the two green- 
shaded lamps on the long table in the middle of the 
room. The brilliancy thrown on the white-satin 
wall-paper with a faint, invisible design traced on its 
surface, made my eyes blink. 

“Oh, Wallie!” exclaimed Lily Valentine. “I get 
enough of the footlights at the theatre.” 

“If I had known you were coming I would have 
provided a calcium,” he said, dancing back into the 
hall. With a twist of his finger he turned off all the 
light except that in the lamps. 

“That ’s better,” said the actress, sinking into one 
of the chairs and letting her eyes roam over the 
crowded table, covered with books and magazines 
and ash-trays, and with photographs of actors and 
actresses, all of them boldly autographed with ex- 
pressions of esteem. “You are so spectacular, Wal- 
lie. Now, if you would only allow your visitors to be 
gradually overwhelmed with all this grandeur, and 
made perfectly miserable with envy, instead of trying 
to hit them right between the eyes!” She rested 
both hands on the carved arms of the chair and 
breathed ecstatically. “Wallie gets awfully cross if 
people don’t faint away the first time they come into 
his new home.” 

“Don’t call it a home, Lily!” the dramatist petu- 
lantly exclaimed. “ It sounds like an orphan asylum. ” 
He walked toward the grate, where the remains of a 
coke-fire emitted an occasional spark. “If you want 
to be refined, call it an abode,” he went on, seizing an 
andiron. As he fiercely poked at the fire, his loose 
Oriental garments betrayed what his conventional 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 137 


black clothes of the night before had mercifully- 
hidden : success was developing embonpoint. “Oh, 
what a nuisance that is!” he said, throwing back the 
andiron on the rack with a loud clatter. “I cannot 
make George keep that fire going. He will simply 
drive me distracted.” Then he ran out into the hall 
and called, over the stairs, “George! George!” 

Alice and I watched him with intense curiosity. 
Lily Valentine looked mildly amused. It was plain 
that she knew what was about to happen. 

From below the staircase I saw the smooth face 
arise, wearing an expression of benignant wonder. 

“Well, now, I think it ’s a shame that you people 
can’t keep this fire going! You are all so lazy that I 
don’t know what to do. Here you’ve had nothing to 
do since luncheon, except to attend the door and look 
after that fire. But you can’t even do that right. 
Have you ever seen me idle?” Hart’s eyes flashed 
indignantly. “Of course, you haven’t. I ’m busy 
every minute of the time.” Here he swept back into 
the room, his silk trousers sagging around his ankles. 
“Just look at that hod, will you?” he said, lowering 
his voice, and pointing to a piece of shining brass 
that I knew was making Alice sick with admiration. 
“Not a piece of coal in it!” 

The servant who had meekly followed Hart into 
the room drew down the comers of his mouth, took up 
the hod, and said in a low voice: “I ’ll bring some, 
sir.” Then, as he turned, I perceived a light in his 
eye that betrayed many things besides his relation to 
Erin. 

Walter Hart watched him till he had disappeared. 


Our Best Society 


138 

“Well, as Maggie Cline says,” he exclaimed, throwing 
up both hands, “God knows I have troubles of my 
own?” 

“Even when you have to make them up yourself,” 
Lily Valentine cheerfully assented. “Now,” she re- 
sumed, folding her hands in her lap, “don’t you think 
we ’d better talk about some real troubles?” 

“That means you and the play you forced me to 
write for you. Now, I told you they ’d roast it. If 
you ’ve come to ask me to tinker it for you, I simply 
won’t do it.” 

“I ’m so glad,” Miss Valentine murmured, sweetly. 

“Well, that throws an entirely different light on 
the matter. What are you glad about?” 

“We sha’n’t have to have another rehearsal now. So 
I can play around in the country all day to-morrow.” 

“For heaven’s sake, go ahead and play! That ’ll 
do you more good than all the rehearsals in Christen- 
dom — unless — ” Walter Hart’s face assumed a look 
of alarm — “unless it ’s with the charming people.” 

From the smile with which Miss Valentine received 
this remark he saw that his fears were confirmed. 
“I ’ve a good mind to insist on a rehearsal, just to 
keep you from acting all day long — for nothing.” He 
sank back in his seat, spreading out the skirts of his 
coat. “Of course, all the things they said against 
your performance are true; I ’ve said them to you 
myself a thousand times. But me — they have n’t 
any idea what I ’m driving at, the critics here in New 
York. Now, over in Philadelphia they appreciate 
me. There ’s a man on one of the papers there, — he 
comes over to every one of my first-nights, — and he 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 139 


says in his column this morning that my last act re- 
minded him of George Eliot.” 

Miss Valentine swayed to one side, pretending to 
faint. “Is that the mood you’re in to-day?’’ she 
gasped. Then she sat up and appealed to Alice and 
me. “This is his Shakespearian mood. It first 
came on when he found that he ’d written more plays 
than Shakespeare. And so young, too ! ’’ She turned 
on Hart the most languishing of her glances. “I 
wonder if rude and unappreciative actresses ever 
guyed Shakespeare,” she flippantly added. 

“No, Shakespeare was spared that indignity,” 
Hart promptly retorted. “They knew better than 
to allow women to appear on the stage in those days. 
That ’s why they had boys instead, because they 
knew how the vanity and the silliness of the women 
would interfere with the dramatists.” 

“Oh, for shame!” Lily Valentine chided, and the 
flush that suffused her cheek betrayed that she was 
really embarrassed. 

“Well, it’s a fact!” Walter Hart exclaimed, 
warming up to his subject. “All that an actress cares 
about nowadays is a sympathetic part, instead of 
taking what ’s offered her by the dramatist and being 
very humble and grateful about it, too. That ’s why 
I have to write so much rot. If Shakespeare had 
been writing for women, do you suppose he ’d ever 
have dared to introduce a Lady Macbeth or The 
Queen in Hamlet ? Never! Now don’t you agree 
with me?” Hart insisted, with his eyes on Alice. 

“No, I don’t think I do!” Alice replied, with an 
emphasis that I noted with surprise. 


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“Walter, stop posing!” said Miss Valentine. “He 
does n’t really mean a word of what he says. He ’s 
just trying to see if he can scare us into agreeing with 
him. Why,” she went on scornfully, “Shakespeare’s 
women are perfectly beautiful, nearly every one of 
them. You can see that he does n’t hate them as you 
do some of your women. Hamlet’s mother he did n’t 
like as much as the others, perhaps because he was 
afraid of widows, and he didn’t believe in second 
marriages. And as for Lady Macbeth, I ’d rather 
play her any day than one of your feline creatures, 
Walter.” 

At this turn I felt a little alarmed ; but Hart saved 
the talk from danger by laughing aloud: “You ’d be 
lovely as Lady Macbeth, Lily — in one of the music 
halls.” 

The servant, who had been fussing with the fire 
under the dramatist’s eye, started to leave the room ; 
but Hart called to him. 

“I suppose I ’ve got to feed you people. Bring 
the tea things, George. How about you, Mr. Foster? 
Scotch?” 

“Mind you bring the right glasses,” said Hart as 
the servant left the room. “Ah, those happy, happy 
days,” he mused, “when I was struggling and living 
in a hall-bedroom just big enough to hold a bed, and 
a desk, and a lovely gas-stove. Whenever I began 
to suffocate from the stove I ’d turn off the gas and 
I ’d hold my head out of the window till I revived. 
By that time I ’d be nearly frozen to death and I ’d 
have to turn the gas on full force again. There was 
something fascinating about that life, passing from 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 141 


one form of extermination to another, and writing a 
little between times. After this house, how small 
that bedroom would seem!” 

“ Hardly big enough, I suppose, to hold your head,” 
Miss Valentine absently remarked. 

Hart turned to me with warning in his eyes. “ See 
what you ’ll have to go through when you become a 
dramatist! Don’t you think you ’d better stick to 
book- writing ? ” 

“Oh, Wallie,” said Miss Valentine, with deep im- 
pressiveness, “he ’s got the most wonderful play up 
his sleeve, and you ’ve got to write it with him.” 

Hart literally threw up his hands. ‘ ‘ Collaboration ? 
Now, Lily, I ’m disappointed in you. Honestly I 
am. Why does n’t he write his own play?” 

“Because he ’s different from you. He ’s mod- 
est.” 

“Well, I made up my mind a year ago that I ’d 
never collaborate again if I — well, if I had to give up 
writing and go on the stage myself, and I can’t think 
of any fate worse than that. If the piece fails, then 
your collaborator goes around explaining that you 
were responsible and the only good things in it were 
his, anyway. If it ’s a success, his friends let it be 
quietly known that he really did all the work. No, 
I ’m getting to be too old a bird to be caught like that 
again. I ’ve got a reputation at last and I ’m going 
to work it for all I ’m worth. I have so many orders 
on hand that I honestly don’t know where to begin. 
Ten thousand dollars in advance, and all the royalties 
and all the glory for little me! You ought to know 
that, Lily. Besides,” he cried out, as if a light had 


i4 2 Our Best Society 

suddenly broken on him, “what do you want a new 
play for?” 

Here Miss Valentine’s face grew scarlet. “Well, 
your play can’t last forever, Walter.” 

“It ought to be good for two seasons, anyway .” 

“After all those roasts this morning?” Miss Valen- 
tine asked, growing bolder. 

“Bah! What do they amount to ? I ’ve got out of 
the reach of the New York papers by this time. They 
can’t hurt me.” 

The servant came in with a tray covered with elab- 
orate silver tea-things and with tall glasses. 

“You pour the tea, Mrs. Foster, won’t you, please?” 
said Hart, graciously, and Alice changed her seat. 
I felt somewhat relieved. We might now have some 
hope of getting into the game. Thus far, Alice and I 
had been wofully out of it. 

To me Hart passed the heavy decanter containing 
the Scotch. “What a lovely glass!” said Alice, and 
I poured myself a stiff drink. 

“Yes, that is rather nice, I think,” Hart carelessly 
remarked. “I picked it up in Venice a couple of 
years ago. What a time I had getting it home! I 
suppose your play is from the story we talked about 
last night, isn’t it?” he suddenly asked, holding up 
his glass toward me and adding, “Prosit.” “Well, 
you’ve got a play there, all right, only not for this 
little girl. She’d kill it.” 

“Oh, you monster!” Lily Valentine cried in a high 
voice. “It’s the kind of part I’ve been longing 
for.” 

“Just as soon as I get time to breathe,” Walter 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 143 


Hart resumed, ignoring the actress, “I intend to call 
all the American dramatists together — there must be 
at least five of us now — and organise a club for the 
restraint of ‘stars.’ Every member shall bind him- 
self to a solemn pledge that he will not allow any 
‘star,’ male or female, to play a part unless the club 
agrees, by a majority vote, that the ‘star’ is really 
able to play it. We really must do something to 
protect ourselves.” 

“I shall insist that the club be called ‘The Hack- 
Dramatists’ Union,’” said Lily Valentine. 

“One of the chief purposes of the Society,” Hart 
went on loftily, “will be the encouragement of mar- 
riage among bad actors. For example: there are 
many actors and actresses that ought to leave the 
stage for the stage’s good, you know. These actresses 
are in nearly all instances delightful ladies. We will 
introduce them to millionaires with a view to matri- 
mony. Whenever a match is arranged the happy 
actress will sign a paper and place it in the Society’s 
archives, promising never to act again. Marriages 
on similar conditions the Society will undertake to 
arrange between matinee idols, every one of whom is 
a bad actor, and matinee girls. I personally know 
dozens of matinee girls able to support actor-husbands 
for the rest of their lives.” 

“The idea is perfectly fascinating!” cried Lily 
Valentine, determined not to be put down. “But 
how about those actor-people who would never think 
of marrying out of the profession?” 

“I’ve thought of them, too. At first they both- 
ered me. But now I see that they are the most easily 


144 


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disposed of. In fact, they will enable us to kill two 
birds with one stone, as it were. My plan is this: 
to establish a fund to which the playgoing public 
will be glad to subscribe generously, providing dower- 
ies for bad actresses who marry bad actors. Both 
contracting parties will agree, of course, to leave the 
stage forever. And, — wait a minute! I know what 
you are going to say, — their children will, naturally, 
be stagestruck from birth, and they will be bad actors 
too. To keep them off the stage we will provide 
them with pensions. Furthermore, to protect the 
theatre against them, we will make the managers 
promise not to employ them. After a time we could 
work up a superstition against them.” 

Miss Valentine shook her head despairingly. “ It ’s 
a beautiful idea! But you never could keep them out 
that way, though all of us real artists would do our 
best to cooperate with you. They ’d take your 
money, and then they’d go on again under assumed 
names. You’d find long strings of automobiles wait- 
ing for millionaires’ wives at the stage door of every 
theatre in the land. No, you’ll have to think of an 
arrangement — more expedient and less farcical, Wal- 
ter,” Miss Valentine declared, and she drew out a 
little jewelled watch. “Heavens! It’s nearly six 
o’clock! Why do you talk so much?” 

“Merely to keep you quiet for a few minutes and 
give you a rest.” Lily Valentine rose from her seat. 

‘ ‘ What ’s on to-night ? ’ ’ 

“A dinner at Sherry’s — the usual thing,” the act- 
ress replied. 

“Oh, you’ll be a wreck before the season’s half 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 145 


over,” Hart lamented, “and you’ll have to close up. 
You’re taking the bread out of my mouth.” 

“Well, my dear, that might reduce your weight ” 

Alice and I had followed Miss Valentine’s example, 
and Hart rose and faced us. “To think that I dis- 
covered her, and made her and wrote a play for her! 
And this is the way she treats me.” 

Miss Valentine walked across the room and I 
thought she was going to kiss him. “And when I 
ask him to do one little thing for me!” she exclaimed, 
holding her chin coquettishly in the air. 

“Now stop worrying, my child, and the piece will 
be all right. Besides, I could n’t collaborate even 
if I would,” Hart remarked, sententiously, taking 
us all in with his bright, ferret-like eyes. “But 
you go ahead and write your play,” he went on, 
addressing me, “and when my piece wears itself 
out so far as Lily ’s concerned, let her put yours on. 
After you get it done, come up and we ’ll go over it 
together.” 

I murmured, “Thank you,” and I felt snubbed, 
though I perceived that Hart meant to be generous. 

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Shakespeare-Bacon,” said 
Miss Valentine, holding her jewelled fingers in the 
air. They were exquisitely manicured and, at the 
tips, they were as pink as a baby’s. I did not blame 
Walter Hart for reverently pressing his lips against 
them. 

“I’ll have to take a cab and jump into a dinner- 
gown,” said the actress. “I’ll be late, anyway; but 
I can’t help that. We’ll pick up a cab as we go 
along.” 


146 


Our Best Society 


Hart bade us good-bye with an air of camaraderie , 
plainly intended to make me feel more comfortable. 
When we reached the street Miss Valentine exclaimed : 

“Well, I suppose you want to kill me!” 

“For what?” I asked, innocently. 

“For putting you through all that.” 

“It was very pleasant to see the housed ’ Alice re- 
marked, and Lily Valentine laughed aloud. 

“You’ll simply have to do the play yourself,” she 
declared. “Oh, here’s a cab. Stop it before it gets 
by. Now you’ll both get in, won’t you, and then 
you can go on from my house? I wish I could take 
you home myself.” 

“We want to walk,” Alice quickly interposed. 

“Well, I’ll see you to-morrow anyway.” Miss 
Valentine leaped into the cab, and then she turned to 
give her address to the driver. “Good-bye,” she 
called out, and away she went. 

Before I had a chance to give vent to my feelings, 
Alice burst out: “It was providential, Ned. We 
found him in just the right mood. Now you can do 
the play by yourself. That will be much better. If 
you did it with him he’d get all the credit, and you’d 
probably have an awful time with him anyway. It’s 
splendid, splendid! Isn’t she perfectly infatuated 
with him?” 

“What!” I gasped. 

“Could n’t you see it?” Alice asked, pityingly. 

“She guyed him all the time. And he guyed her. 
They’re always guying each other. I suppose you 
think he’s in love with her.” 

“Oh, Ned! There you are again, attributing silly 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 147 

opinions to me. Of course he is n’t in love with her 
— yet.” 

“But you think he will be.” 

“That depends.’ 

“On what?” 

“ On the way she manages him.” 

I had a sudden attack of rage that seemed to come 
from my innermost being. I always feel enraged 
when I hear of a woman managing a man. This time 
I controlled myself for the purpose of getting at 
what was in Alice’s mind. 

“What do you mean by managing him?” I said, 
trying not let my tone seem bitter. “How can she 
manage him f” 

“Well, of course, you can see that he’s awfully 
fond of her.” 

“He looks upon her as a mere child.” 

“Exactly. And what an advantage that gives 
her! You see, dear, he is plainly used to being flat- 
tered and petted by the actresses and the other 
women he meets, and he’s suspicious of them. But 
Miss Valentine he regards as a child, and he’s proud 
of having ‘ made ’ her, as he says. If he knew what 
a dangerous position he’s in, he’d be scared to death. 
I think she’s taken a step forward this afternoon.” 

“How?” I asked, in an awed whisper. All this 
underground observation had a painful fascination 
for me. It suggested reams of “copy” destined to 
remain under my eye unseen, lost. I felt the de- 
spairing pangs of conscious incompetence. 

“He was awfully piqued by her suggesting that he 
collaborate with you on the play, with any one, in 


1 48 


Our Best Society 


fact,” Alice hastily added. “And, of course, the 
mere implication that his own piece might not be a 
success jarred him.” 

“Yes, I saw that!” I exclaimed, glad of a chance 
to exploit my own insight. I added satirically: 
“Then you’ve decided to get them married.” 

We had turned into Fifth Avenue again, and Alice 
walked on for several moments without replying. 
Somehow, in the dark, the crowd had lost its impres- 
siveness; besides, it had considerably diminished. 
The extravagantly dressed women drove past less 
frequently in the cabs, and only an occasional frock- 
coat ornamented the sidewalk. 

“It doesn’t at all follow that they will marry,” 
said Alice. “By the time he falls in love with her 
she may not care so much for him. In fact, his fall- 
ing in love with her may destroy her interest in him 
altogether — her romantic interest, I mean. She’s 
probably so spoiled, too, by having men fall in love 
with her that his indifference piques her. At any 
rate,” she concluded, following a line of thought that 
my mind had been anxiously pursuing, “it isn’t 
at all likely to interfere with our scheme.” 

“I wish I felt sure of that,” I said. 

“But isn’t it absurd,” she resumed, with indigna- 
tion in her tone, “that he should live in that house 
all alone? It’s positively selfish. A man with a 
house like that ought to be married.” 

As we were in a public thoroughfare, I refrained 
from starting a discussion that could not be properly 
concluded within several exciting hours. I will say 
right here, though, that if there is anything that 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 149 


makes me mad it is the belief prevalent among the 
members of a certain sex that because a man is rich 
it ’s a disgrace for him to be a bachelor. 

“I suppose that Mary is out,” I said, to change the 
subject. 

“So we needn’t go home. We might go to a 
restaurant.” 

“Very well,” I agreed, with a profound sigh. 

“There’s not much in the ice-chest.” 

“To be honest, dear, I ’m all tired out from the agi- 
tation of our life this day. But if you insist on going 
to a restaurant ” 

“I don’t insist,” Alice said with an indifference 
which assured me that she was ready to be noble if I 
wished to exact the sacrifice. 

“Do you know, Alice,” I said, “I never love home 
so much as when Mary is absent ? It is n’t quite the 
same to me when she ’s there.” 

“It would be very different to me, too, if she were 
to disappear altogether. Of course, I know there 
have been literary men’s wives who have done all 
their household work, and very little credit they get 
in their husbands’ biographies. And as for their 
husbands’ awfo-biographies, I don’t believe that a 
word in their praise has ever been written. You’d 
think from the way the autobiographies sailed along 
that authors never ate, or had their clothes done up 
for the wash, or complained about the household 
expenses. And such appetites as some of them must 
have had ! I ’ve always believed that Carlyle got his 
dyspepsia from overeating. But the way authors 
rise above the mention, and even the memory, of 


150 


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such details! It’s so grand that I often feel like 
bursting into tears.” 

“We will go to a restaurant,” I replied, in a calm, 
even tone. Then I loudly exclaimed: “We will go 
to Sherry’s if you like.” 

“ No, Ned,” said Alice, clutching at my arm. “ I ’m 
not well enough dressed, and besides, Lily Valentine 
might see us.” 

“What of it if she should?” I petulantly asked. 
Here again was a consideration utterly foreign to the 
masculine mind. 

“It would look queer.” Then, before I had time 
to probe this statement, Alice went on: “We’ll go 
home and be Darby and Joan again.” 

When we reached home and assured ourselves that 
Mary was not there, we changed our raiment for 
some of our oldest clothes, and we prowled about in 
the kitchen, and, putting our heads together over the 
ice-chest, we gathered some chicken and fried bacon 
and salad and cheese. Then Alice made some 
coffee. As we ate, instead of sitting together at 
opposite ends of the table in the dignified propriety 
that we maintain before Mary, we sat side by 
side. 

While we were at the salad, we both heard a shuf- 
fling of feet in the hall, and before we had time to 
cast at each other a look of alarm, the electric bell 
gave a long ring. 

“One of the literati f” Alice asked in a shocked 
voice. At that moment the most friendly intruder 
was an enemy. 

“No,” I hopefully replied, “the literati never ring 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 15 


in that brazen manner. They’re too timid and re- 
fined. It must be a messenger-boy.” 

Alice dashed into the kitchen to keep out of sight. 
“If I have to dress again to-day I shall die!” she 
exclaimed under her breath. 

I opened the door, as people do when they dread 
invasion, slowly, covertly. At sight of a uniformed 
messenger-boy, however, I regained my composure, 
and I threw the door wide open. What a charm a 
messenger can have. He is even more fascinating 
than the post -man. They both suggest some unex- 
pected luck that will change the whole aspect of life. 
Before I had time to read the address, Alice shouted 
over my shoulder, “It’s for me,” and she drew it 
from my hand. When she had tom open the en- 
velope and read the note she said, “M’m!” 

“More Society?” I asked. 

“It’s from Letty Henderson.” As Alice walked 
into the dining-room, I followed and she held up the 
note so that I might let my eyes run over it. 

“My dearest Alice: 

“ I forgot to ask you this afternoon if you would n’t 
let me drive down for you to-morrow morning. So 
I’m going to. take for granted that you will. It will 
be a tight squeeze for three in our little coupe but I 
will make myself as small as possible. 

“Mamma was so pleased when I told her about my 
luncheon to-day that she wants very much to meet 
you and Mr. Foster. She says she hopes you will 
both come back here with me in the afternoon and 
eat a simple dinner. Affectionately yours, 

“Letty,” 


i5 2 


Our Best Society 


When I had finished reading, I remarked: “Well, 
you’ve made a hit with her all right. But how about 
that dinner?” 

“Oh, it will be a simple dinner,” Alice replied, in a 
tone that suggested her thoughts were on other things. 

“Yes, that fact has already been mentioned. And 
of course, it makes the prospect all the more alluring, 
though in the matter of simplicity we can give the 
Hendersons cards and spades.” 

“We sha’n’t even have to dress, and we can leave 
by half -past eight.” 

“A day gone out of my life,” I tragically lamented. 
“Still,” I went on, determined to be philosophical, 
“after Ardsley I shall be a wreck anyway.” 

“Now,” said Alice, in her most lilting manner, 
“this is really providential. After Mary attends to 
the wash, she won’t have any dinner to get, and she 
can go to her sister’s in Hoboken.” 

“That, of course, is the strongest argument you 
have advanced so far. Let us break up our home, 
let us work any graft, so long as the result is pleasant 
for Mary.” 

“Oh, Ned,” Alice pleaded, “you’ve been so good 
to-day up to this minute.” She waited to make sure 
that the shot had hit a vital part. Then, seeing that 
she had completely reduced me, she continued, pleas- 
antly: “Of course, it’s perfectly plain what Letty 
Henderson’s up to. If we drive to the Holland 
House with her, she will have the feeling that she 
can cling to us every minute. That mother of hers 
is forcing her to go, though I can see the poor girl 
dreads putting in a whole day with Teddy.” 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 153 


“Oh, what partisans you women are!” 

“And then, our going with her like that makes it 
easy for us to meet her mother in that informal way.” 

“ So you think the old lady does n’t really want us ? ” 

“She wants to see what we are like.” 

“Alice!” I said, impressively. 

“What?” 

“If men knew the insidious complications of femi- 
nine life do you suppose that any man would ever 
dare to get married ? ’ * 

Alice superciliously lifted her eyebrows. “And if 
any woman knew how positively thick the brightest 
man can be at a critical time, do you suppose she’d 
ever accept a proposal?” 

At ten o’clock we heard Mary stealthily entering 
the house. On returning from her absence, she in- 
variably enters like a thief in the night. Alice always 
refuses to investigate. The consciousness of Mary’s 
presence roused Alice to prepare feverishly for the 
next day, and it was past midnight before we turned 
out the last light. 

“Have you thought, my dear,” I said, as the clock 
approached midnight, “how much time we waste 
over details?” 

“Life consists of details,” Alice epigrammatically 
responded. 

“But we ought not to be overwhelmed by them.” 

“Still, there’s such a thing as ignoring them alto- 
gether, and putting your own burdens on other 
people.” 

I saw that at this moment I was no match for 
Alice. I was sleepy, and she was in the state of 


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nervous exhilaration that seizes on any pretext for 
argument. I resolved to be politic, and, leaning 
back in my chair, with my head resting on my arm, 
I began to relax into unconsciousness. 

“What are you going to wear?” said Alice. 

I sat up with a start. “What?” I repeated, to 
gain time. 

When I had heard the remark again I tried to 
rouse myself. “Oh, my blue serge will do.” 

Alice sniffed. “It needs to be pressed.” 

“Well, send Mary around the corner to the tailor’s 
with it in the morning.” 

Alice paid no heed to my remark. “Do you want 
me to leave a note for Mary?” Alice asked, and ob- 
serving the bewildered expression in my eyes, she 
explained: “We’ll have to send those clothes to the 
tailor’s by seven o’clock at the latest or we shall keep 
Letty Henderson and the others waiting. It will be 
awful if you get into one of your stews as we are about 
to start.” 

I bowed my head in meek submission. “ ‘ I will in 
all my best obey you, Madam,’” I said in my finest 
Shakespearian manner. 

“Then write, in a large, round hand, with wide 
spaces between the words, ‘Please take to tailor’s 
right off. Must have them back by eight o’clock.’” 

“What’s the use of writing?” I asked, and I 
quickly added: “You’ll probably be up at five any- 
way, and you’ll tell Mary about the clothes long 
before she has time to read the note.” 

That was a stupid blunder. I can offer no excuse 
for it. It was merely the usual masculine effort, 


Walter Hart Entertains Us 155 


doomed to failure, to thwart an elemental feminine 
impulse. With the air of a deeply wronged woman 
Alice walked to my desk and I followed. The note to 
Mary she printed on a piece of copy-paper in a large 
hand, and, returning to the bedroom, she drew my 
blue-serge suit from the wardrobe, pinned the paper 
to the waistcoat, and disappeared with the bundle 
into the darkness at the back of the house. I lis- 
tened intently till she returned. There was a curious 
expression in her eyes, and I waited for her to speak. 

“Mary’s door was closed,’’ she said. “She usually 
leaves it open.’’ 

I stood motionless. 

“She was breathing very heavily.” 

I nodded. “We’ve observed her breathing be- 
fore, dearest. We’ve often spoken of the power of 
her breath. In the deep watches of the night it 
comes to me like a bugle-blast.” 

“This time it is different,” Alice said, significantly. 
“It is n’t merely sound. It’s ” 

“I’ve got it!” I exclaimed in a whisper. I have 
always prided myself on the keenness of my senses. 
I have often noted the instant when a clock has 
stopped in a room, and as for 

“What is it?” Alice asked, gazing at my alarmed 
eyes. 

“If I am not mistaken, it is the odour of a very 
bad brand of Scotch.” 

Alice convulsively drew her hands together. “And 
to-morrow — think of leaving her in the house to- 
morrow! I must n’t let her go to Hoboken.” 

“She ’s probably come straight from there. We’ll 


Our Best Society 


156 

have to keep her at home. But she’ll be sorry in the 
morning and she’ll work all the harder.” 

When I woke in the morning the sun was shining 
into my room, and from the sounds in the apartment 
I knew that life had been stirring there for a long 
time. I looked at my watch, hanging from my 
waistcoat at the side of my bed, according to a habit 
left over from my bachelor-life, and I found that it 
was nearly half -past eight o’clock. I leaped from 
the bed and the first thing I noticed was a neat little 
pile of beautifully pressed clothes lying on a chair. 
At sight of it I felt one of those impulses of joy and 
gratitude that to me are one of the greatest blessings 
of married life. What would life be without Alice! 
I resolved in future to try to be kind to her in every 
way, and I grieved at the unfortunate disposition 
that put me so often in the wrong with her. I pro- 
ceeded at once to improve my character by getting 
ready for breakfast as fast as possible. I was ad- 
justing my four-in-hand tie when Alice, in one of her 
prettiest cloth dresses, with the stamp of the fashion- 
able tailor all over it, entered the room. She smiled 
at me approvingly and held up her lips to be kissed. 

“How’s Mary?” I asked. 

“A little more respectful and humble than usual. 
She offered of her own accord to make you some 
cream-toast.” 

“Do you think she suspects we’ve noticed any 
thing?” 

Alice shook her head. “I’ve planned a day for 
her that will keep her busy. It seemed a pity to let 
any of her enthusiasm go to waste.” 


CHAPTER X 


AN OUTING IN THE COUNTRY 



T breakfast Mary avoided my eye. From covert 


I\ glances, I gathered that she dreaded masculine 
observation; but if she feared me more than Alice, 
I reflected, she was making a grave blunder. I knew 
that I could trust Alice to deal with the problem at 
its present stage, and I looked forward with some 
interest to seeing what would happen. Perhaps, too, 
a lurking feeling that Mary had not rated me very 
highly influenced my state of mind. 

While we were sitting at the table, Letty Hender- 
son arrived, reminding me, in her frail beauty, of a 
white rose shot with pink. The flower-like suggestion 
was emphasised by the way she carried her slim and 
pretty figure : even while she was sitting she swayed 
lightly. It occurred to me that a rough word would 
strike her to the ground. There was something ap- 
pealing about her, something almost pathetic. 

When we had entered the carriage, Alice began ex- 
citedly to tell Miss Henderson about our experience 
with Mary, making a long and dramatic story out of 
it. As I listened, I marvelled at the way women 
feed their incipient friendship with some of the most 
intimate and personal details of life, and create in- 
tense emotional effects with the rehearsal of trifles. 


i57 


158 


Our Best Society 


During the discussion, Miss Henderson swayed like a 
flower-stalk in a gale. 

When we reached the Holland House, we found 
Teddy Markoe and Monty standing on the sidewalk 
beside the coach. I noted that Teddy was dressed 
in what, to my eye, seemed an extraordinary get-up, 
a long yellow coat, like a cutaway, yellow trousers, 
tightened at the knees, long yellow boots, and a blue 
stock around his thick throat. If I had not known 
who he was I should have taken him for a groom. 
To be frank, he looked tough. Monty, on the other 
hand, seemed like a figure out of a Gibson drawing, 
in a loose-fitting gray suit and with a white stock and 
grey felt hat. It occurred to me that if Monty were n’t 
so silly he would be a great heart -breaker. When I 
noted that his shoes were exactly like my own, I felt 
like shaking hands with him; but I grieved that I 
had not worn a stock, and I had a beauty at home, too. 
Still, it was a comfort to think that I had had sense 
enough to wear a coloured shirt. I could see that, 
so far as the men were concerned, it was the thing to 
be as neglige as possible; but, of course, making it 
plain that the effect was a deliberate achievement. 
Teddy’s rig, for example, was a triumph. 

“Are we the first?” Miss Henderson asked, and 
Monty replied: 

“Lily Valentine drove down the Avenue pell-mell 
five minutes ago with her hair all in a tangle. She 
thought she’d be late, and when she found no one 
else was here but us two she would n’t get out of the 
cab. Then Mrs. Smith came along and took her into 
the hotel to fix her up.” 


An Outing in the Country 159 

“Suppose we go in and find them,” said Miss Hen- 
derson to Alice. 

They started off, leaving me alone with the two 
boys. 

“Great day,” said Teddy, absently, seeming to be 
unaware of the existence of the crowd that had gath- 
ered in front of him. 

“Yes,” I said. “It seems to me that in New York, 
at this time of year, we have the finest weather in the 
world.” 

He plainly did not care for this observation. He 
stood looking straight ahead. I resolved not to waste 
any long speeches on him again. In fact, the com- 
plete failure of my remark silenced me. To my great 
relief, Mrs. Van Zandt and Mrs. Eustace rolled up 
together. Monty rushed forward to open the door 
of their carriage, and Teddy, still without moving, 
looked on with mild interest. The two ladies were 
amazingly flounced and feathered, and, as they ex- 
tended their white-gloved hands, their eyes shone 
through their white veils. 

At that moment Miss Valentine, in a singularly 
girlish blue-silk dress, with white spots, and the sim- 
plest and prettiest little hat, came out of the hotel, 
followed by Mrs. Smith, Letty Henderson, and Alice. 
Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Eustace began to shriek at each 
other and to laugh. From their exchanges I gath- 
ered one vital fact, that Cosgrave had said he ’d come 
if he could, and, if he did come, he ’d probably be late. 

“Well, I object most decidedly to waiting for him! 
He’s a nuisance, that man is!” said Mrs. Smith, em- 
phatically. She, too, was sustaining a good deal of 


i6o 


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ornamentation in the way of clothes and millinery, 
and it made her look curiously old. 

The discussion continued for several minutes, with 
the sublime indifference to the crowd on the part of 
the participants that I had noticed in Teddy’s face. 
I observed, by the way, that when the talk was at 
its fiercest, Teddy turned away and caressed the 
horses. 

“Well, we might as well get up,” said Mrs. Van 
Zandt, wearily, “instead of standing here in the 
street.” 

Lily Valentine walked back to the steps of the 
hotel, and Monty followed. 

“ I will not climb up there till we ’re ready to start,” 
the actress declared. “I object to being stared at 
by this mob.” 

Then Monty made a remark that gave me a strong 
desire to annihilate him, though I saw that he meant 
to be humorous. Oh, Humour, what sins have been 
committed in thy name! 

“It’s all part of the show, Miss Valentine. It’ll 
be a good advertisement for you.” 

Miss Valentine turned on him a look that would 
have paralysed most men. It was the first indication 
I had ever seen of her capacity for tragedy. Her face 
grew scarlet and then white around the lips. Monty 
merely laughed, and began to joke with Letty Hen- 
derson, who was keeping near Alice, determined to 
sit beside her on the coach. 

Suddenly it occurred to me that there was no real 
difference between these women of society and Lily 
Valentine. At this moment they were displaying 


An Outing in the Country 161 


themselves on the public thoroughfare exactly as 
Lily Valentine exploited herself on the stage. Their 
apparent unconsciousness of the crowd was like the 
absorption of the actress in her part — only they were 
artists, every one of them, including the imperturb- 
able Teddy. They really enjoyed the gaping admira- 
tion and envy of these people, and they loved tearing 
up Fifth Avenue, their finery flying in the air to the 
tooting of the horn. The same instinct for display 
moved them as had driven the French nobility on to 
the horrors of the French Revolution. Now this boy, 
Teddy, he was enjoying the graft his father had 
passed on to him through the monopoly of Standard 
Oil. Mrs. Van Zandt represented millions acquired 
by another kind of graft, the building of railroads, 
designed ostensibly to serve the people, but really to 
put an enormous tax upon them in return for the use 
of a convenience. Monty was wrapped in the luxury 
provided by the people’s patience with a tariff that 
so generously contributed to the maintenance of his 
father’s industries. 

I had observed Mrs. Van Zandt and Mrs. Smith in 
excited talk, Mrs. Smith, as usual, laying down the 
law, and Mrs. Van Zandt, ever apprehensive, casting 
furtive glances at Mrs. Eustace. Presently Mrs. 
Smith walked boldly toward Teddy. “I’m going to 
get up there,’’ she said. “ It ’s ridiculous, our waiting 
for that man any longer.” 

Teddy smiled approvingly, and muttered some- 
thing that made Mrs. Smith laugh aloud. The other 
ladies climbed after her, Letty Henderson, to my 
secret amusement, keeping close to Alice. Teddy 


ii 


i 62 


Our Best Society 


helped her with the apparently stolid indifference 
which marked his attitude toward the rest of the 
world. I began to feel an admiration for a man who 
could control himself like that. In fact, I was so 
impressed that I began to query whether his interest 
in the girl could be serious, after all. 

Mrs. Eustace sat in front of me, spreading out her 
finery till she occupied room enough for two. Her 
face was flushed and her eyes glistened; she kept 
glancing up Fifth Avenue, and then looking us over 
with the air of being about to say something and not 
daring to say it. 

“Well, are you ready to go?” Teddy cried in a 
rough voice from the sidewalk. 

“All ready!” Mrs. Smith replied, and in her voice 
I thought I could catch the note of defiance. 

Mrs. Eustace’s handsome eyes fairly bulged. In a 
moment, I expected to see them moisten with tears. 
But, instead, they became luminous. “Oh, here he 
is now!” she exclaimed, waving her parasol in the 
air. In the distance, we saw bearing down upon us 
a hansom-cab with the beautiful Mr. Cosgrave lean- 
ing over the low doors. As soon as he reached us, 
Mrs. Eustace called out severely: 

“Oh, you horrid person! We were going without 
you.” 

Cosgrave smiled provokingly, turning an impersonal 
glance on all the ladies. ‘ ‘ Why did n’t you ? ” he said, 
ignoring Mrs. Eustace as an individual and seeming 
to address us as a body. 

“Because we couldn’t bear to abandon you,” re- 
plied the amiable Mrs. Van Zandt. 


An Outing in the Country 163 

“What was the matter with you, anyway ?” Mrs. 
Eustace insisted. “Have you just got up? I don’t 
believe he’s had any breakfast,” she added, breath- 
lessly. “We certainly don’t intend to wait for you,” 
she threatened. 

Cosgrave kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Van Zandt, 
as if she had asked the question. “I could n’t make 
up my mind whether to come or to stay at home and 
work,” he said. 

“Well, let’s go on without him,” Mrs. Eustace 
proposed, and the look in her eyes was painful to 
see. I wonder why it should always be distressing 
to observe a woman manoeuvring with a man, and 
why it should be positively odious when the man has 
the advantage. Is it merely a prejudice, that, like 
so many other prejudices, men have fostered in order 
to acquire even more than their natural advantage 
over women? Or is it a feeling that is inherent in 
the human race? And yet we expect the woman to 
be the first to attract — only she must never let us 
catch her doing it consciously. Whatever explana- 
tion may be true, we have certainly done our best to 
turn women into hypocrites, and then we call hypoc- 
risy one of the worst of their sins. 

While the colloquy with Cosgrave was continuing, 
I could not, to my regret, see Teddy’s face. It took 
no great power of divination, however, to understand 
the young man’s feelings. It would, I confess, have 
pleased me to see Teddy drive merrily away and leave 
Cosgrave in that hansom, but, instead, he waited 
stolidly for the handsome figure to step lightly from 
the cab, to confer with the cabby, and then, with great 


164 


Our Best Society 


deliberateness, to transfer itself to the place occupied 
a few minutes before by Mrs. Eustace’s draperies. 
Teddy thereupon cracked his whip, our trumpeter 
blew a loud blast, and as the idlers gaped we started 
heavily and then, with a light bound, we bowled along. 

All in a rush I felt a fine physical exhilaration. In 
the first place, it was delightfully novel to sit in that 
high seat and to move rhythmically through the air 
up the beautiful canyon of Fifth Avenue. And then 
— I say it without shame, for I recognise here simply 
a trait common to our poor human nature, a vulgar 
trait, it is true, but I repeat that at heart we are all 
vulgar — there was something entrancing in passing 
through millionairedom on the top of that coach sur- 
rounded by representatives of so many millions. Best 
of all, it was fine sport. I envied Teddy, not because 
he was rich, but because his millions enabled him to 
be a good sportsman, and because he could drive 
those horses, and because he could ride to the hounds 
and have a racing stable, and a yacht, because, in 
short, being able to do as he pleased, he had sense 
enough to take at least a part of his pleasures 
wholesomely. 

I think the others must have been affected some- 
what as I was, for during the first few minutes they 
kept silent, enjoying the perfect New York autumn 
day. I had a feeling that even the horses, now that 
they had struck their gait, were having a good time, 
too. The well-dressed and leisurely pedestrians in 
the Avenue looked at us with pleased faces, as if they 
approved of us and appreciated the spectacle we were 
providing for them. The smart-looking children wan- 


An Outing in the Country 165 

dering in the sunshine with their nurses crowed with 
delight. 

With a few exceptions the finest houses along the 
Avenue were closed. The only signs of life they 
gave came from the lower regions where the care- 
takers lived. For more than half the year, these 
palaces stood untenanted. I might have been 
tempted to philosophise on this waste of wealth if I 
had not felt too happy to think seriously about any- 
thing. I even took an added pleasure in a thought 
that usually depressed me, of a morning that ought 
to be devoted to work lost out of my life ! 

As we skirted the Park, along the huddled mag- 
nificence of the dwellings of the newest millionaires, 
their beauty cramped and degraded by their lack of 
setting, with the great hotels and apartment houses 
looming from the west, I had an overpowering sense 
of the wonder of New York, the Mecca of the con- 
querors in life, the theatre in which the rich and suc- 
cessful contended for applause. Everything about 
me seemed to proclaim prosperity and power, and to 
deny the existence of failure and of poverty and un- 
happiness. It was inspiring, it was seductive, and if, 
in my intoxication, I remotely suspected that danger 
might lie there, too, I found it easy to forget. 

By the time we reached the country most of the 
ladies had adjusted themselves to the coach and had 
become voluble again. Mrs. Eustace talked almost 
hysterically, with a great deal of laughter at her own 
remarks and with a feverish appreciation of Cos- 
grave’s bored commonplaces. Mrs. Smith and Mrs. 
Van Zandt gossiped with intense eagerness, their 


Our Best Society 


1 66 

comments sounding like quotations from a scandal- 
ous society journal. Alice and Letty Henderson were 
absorbed in each other, though from the bits of their 
talk that reached me I found nothing of special in- 
terest. It was probably such excited enjoyment, if 
enjoyment it could be called, that made many women 
so exhausted after the mildest social experiences. 
How often had I seen Alice come home from an after- 
noon tea looking and acting as if she had done the 
work of a day-labourer. 

Teddy drove with an air of absorbed determina- 
tion, the curve of his shoulders suggesting a concen- 
tration of force and surliness. Teddy had begun to 
assume a strong interest for me; I wished that I 
could know him better. 

As we passed through Fordham and up the beauti- 
ful thoroughfare running parallel with the Hudson, 
through Yonkers and Hastings and Tarrytown, the 
Palisades rising majestically from the opposite shore 
of the river, the boughs of the trees, with only an 
occasional leaf clinging to the branches, standing dis- 
tinct in the clear air, I busied myself with choosing a 
house for Alice and me, when our ship came in. Those 
occasional houses desperately clinging to the edge of 
the Palisades must give a view of the river reaching 
as far as Grant’s Tomb and on fine days stretching 
out to include the marvellously light and graceful 
Brooklyn Bridge. I knew we could be very happy in 
one of those houses. But living there would require 
a horse, and a run-about for Alice, and a stable and a 
man. From the pursuit of these considerations I 
turned resolutely away. There must be more modest 


An Outing in the Country 167 


places on this side of the river ; but every house that 
attracted me seemed, as it were, to take for granted 
the secure possession of an income that, in my case, 
suggested editors and publishers scrambling over one 
another to secure interviews with me, and to offer me 
checks and innocently elaborate luncheons at the 
Waldorf-Astoria. It was appalling to think of the 
things that were taken for granted in New York! 

By the time we reached the club, our drive had 
given us fierce appetites. Teddy explained that he 
had ordered luncheon by telephone and that it would 
be ready as soon as we sat down. Then he announced 
that he proposed to give the men a drink, and Cos- 
grave, Monty, and I followed him to the bar. His 
eye fell on me as the barkeeper greeted him. “What 
are you going to have?” he said, and, in a whirl of 
mental indecision, I replied, with resolution in my 
voice, “Vichy.” 

Cosgrave and Monty took Martini cocktails and, 
to my astonishment, Teddy followed my example. 
Monty watched him with an amused eye. 

“How long is it going to last?” he said, and Teddy 
replied, as he signed the check, “Till we get to the 
luncheon table.” 

Cosgrave seemed eager to return to the porch and 
I followed him. Teddy and Monty lingered behind. 
In the absence of the ladies, we both seemed to feel 
that the two boys were altogether too young for our 
society. 

“Beastly long drive,” Cosgrave said, and he passed 
me a cigar. It looked like Holbrook’s cigar and I 
shook my head. I congratulated myself on being in 


Our Best Society 


1 68 

a grave and conservative mood. “Still,” he re- 
sumed, “it’s rather good to get into the country at 
this time of year. I’ve been shut up in my studio 
for weeks, working on a portrait that I can’t get 
right. So I decided this morning to forget it.” 

“It’s a good thing to snub your work once in a 
while,” I said. 

“Especially when it’s been snubbing you,” he 
added, briskly, as if trying to spoil the effect of my 
epigram, and then, without making a change in his 
attitude or in the expression of his face, he suddenly 
lapsed from the conversation. It was as if he had 
turned on his heel and walked away. On an impulse, 
I left him and strolled to the other end of the porch. 
At that moment Mrs. Eustace burst out of the door, 
and walking straight up to Cosgrave, she said: 

“You monster! why did you humiliate me before 
all those people?” 


CHAPTER XI 


TEDDY MARKOE MAKES AN APPEAL 

O F course, Mrs. Eustace had not seen me, and I 
did not possess sufficient nerve to indicate 
that I had heard the remark by shuffling my feet or 
making any other sound to betray my presence. I 
did, however, have the decency to turn my head 
away. 

For what seemed to me an interminable time Cos- 
grave did not speak. I pictured him as nodding in 
my direction and silencing his companion. But at 
last he said quietly and deliberately: 

“I think you must be out of your senses.” 

Monty then burst upon the scene, and on seeing 
him Mrs. Eustace walked around the corner of the 
porch, followed by Cosgrave. The blue eyes of the 
boy, usually so innocent, assumed a knowing look. 
As he approached me, he remarked indifferently: “I 
wonder what those two people are up to?” 

I had a perverse feeling that I must hide from 
Alice what I had seen, and I tried to convince myself 
that I ought not to say anything about it — even to 
her. I tried to justify myself by the thought that I 
despised gossip; but my literary consciousness at 
once denied the flattery. I really liked it, though I 
considered that in my case it rather transcended mere 
169 


170 


Our Best Society 


gossip and became a study of human motives and 
social procedure. I have never quite dared to voice 
this justification to Alice, however. In the end, I 
decided that in this instance concealment would be 
taking an unfair advantage, especially as Alice never 
concealed anything of interest from me. Moreover, 
if I told her at all, I would do well to tell her at the 
first glance, or she would never forgive me. It was 
plain enough now that her insight was going to have 
one of its most triumphant vindications. So, as soon 
as she appeared on the porch with Letty Henderson 
and the others, I managed to whisper to her: “I’ve 
got something to tell you.” 

She understood at once and she walked away from 
me with a nonchalance that expressed her complete 
approval of my behaviour as a husband. Ever since 
the first few weeks of our marriage Alice has per- 
sistently declared that I hide things from her, and I 
often have to take the most subtle and elaborate 
precautions to head off her suspicions. Like an ex- 
perienced physician, I have learned the superiority of 
prophylactic measures. 

What was said by those two people around the 
corner of the porch I cannot even surmise, but at the 
luncheon table I observed that Mrs. Eustace was 
much less hectic in her appearance and less excited in 
her talk, and that Cosgrave exerted himself to main- 
tain his share of the conversational burden. They 
were both trying desperately not to appear self-con- 
scious, and yet I felt sure that every one at the table 
was watching them. The luncheon proved to be one 
of those terrible midday meals that make human 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 171 

beings seem like ostriches. It was marvellous to me 
to see the ease with which so much food was put away. 
I resisted the temptation to eat much, fearing the 
terrible drowsiness that follows indulgence. To my 
astonishment, I observed that in the case of most of 
the others, the more they ate the more lively they 
became. But perhaps my combination was wrong. 
It was possibly not the food that stimulated. 

It must have been half -past three when we finished 
eating. When we rose, it was as if each person were 
lifting three hundred pounds. We walked heavily 
to the porch and sank again into seats, that is, all 
but Mrs. Eustace and Cosgrave, who, as if by prear- 
rangement, at once disappeared together among the 
trees. Their departure gave us all a feeling of 
consciousness which every one ignored, except the 
irrepressible little Monty who, raising his eyes 
heavenward, exclaimed: 

“There are times when it is good for the soul to 
withdraw from life’s turmoil.” 

“Monty, you ought to be spanked,” said Mrs. 
Smith. 

I had succeeded in getting near Alice and I man- 
aged to say under my breath : 

“Did you ever see such eating?” 

“It’s nothing to what goes on at women’s lun- 
cheons,” I heard her distinctly reply, though her lips 
did not move and hardly a sound was audible. 

Teddy, who had been sitting with outstretched 
legs and with a surly expression on his face, rose with 
a determined air. “I’m going out there and smoke 
under the trees,” he said. “It must be as warm as 


i^2 Our Best Society 

toast on those dry leaves. See how the sun is pour- 
ing on them.” 

I had refused a cigar at table and he noticed that 
my hands were hanging limply at each side of my 
chair. Without a word he drew a cigar from his 
pocket and passed it to me. I cannot explain why, 
but I construed this simple act of politeness as an 
invitation to join him. While I was swiftly debating 
whether to accept he said lightly, “Don’t you want 
to come along?” 

Without replying, I started down the path and he 
followed. 

“After women eat,” Teddy astonished me by say- 
ing, “they get confidential, and they don’t want 
men around.” 

“How about Monty?” I asked, smiling. 

“Oh, they don’t mind him.” 

Again I smiled and I looked sharply at Teddy; 
but his face was imperturbable. He must know 
Monty pretty well, and his remark was strikingly at 
variance with the opinion I had formed of the little 
blond youth. Monty might look like a pretty doll; 
but I had a suspicion that, in spite of his curly 
hair and his pink cheeks, he was rather assertively 
masculine. 

“You’re in the writing business, aren’t you?” 
Teddy said. 

Whenever I am directly asked this question, I al- 
ways feel ashamed. It seems like a reproach. 

When I had confessed the truth, Teddy went on, 
“Is there much money in it?” 

Now I don’t think that Teddy meant to be super- 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 1 73 


cilious ; but when people make this inquiry they are, 
as a rule, at least patronising. It was against them 
rather than against Teddy that I felt resentful. 

“Well, an acquaintance of mine, a man who writes 
plays, makes about three thousand dollars a week.” 

No remark I might possibly have made could have 
caused Teddy deeper astonishment. “The hell he 
does!” he said. 

I was so pleased with my success that I had to 
keep still for several minutes in order to enjoy the 
full relish. It was one of those unpremeditated re- 
marks that, deep down in your heart, you feel you 
don’t deserve credit for. It was as if I had been 
prompted. 

But Teddy brought me down to his level again by 
this blunt question, “Do you make anything like 
that?’’ 

“I regret to say that I do not,” I replied, feeling 
very pedantic and cheap. 

My words evidently gave Teddy some relief. It 
was plain that he had not intended to talk with me 
as millionaire to millionaire. Moreover, his question 
about my affairs, as I now perceived, was designed 
as merely preliminary, to lead up to a subject of 
much more importance in his mind. My reply had 
thrown the conversation out of joint, had given to 
a mere detail a sensational character. It was with 
some difficulty that Teddy recovered from the jolt 
and took a new route. 

“You must have married pretty young,” he 
said. 

He would have been astonished if he had known 


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that so simple and so incontrovertible a remark had 
made such a hit. I at once softened toward Teddy. 
All rankling traces of those little references to the re- 
wards of literature were wiped out. I suddenly be- 
came voluble. 

“Yes, I was pretty young, as married men go 
nowadays. But I did n’t hesitate long about mak- 
ing up my mind, and I’ve never had a regret.’’ 

“ How long have you been married ?’’ Teddy asked. 

“Three years,’’ I replied with a laugh, not allowing 
my enthusiasm to be damped by the suspicion of 
patience in Teddy’s tone. “But it seems a good 
deal longer.’’ 

“Longer?” Teddy echoed, in surprise. He was 
really interested now. 

“ It seems as if I had always been married. I can’t 
think of myself as not being married.” 

“Oh!” he said, obviously disappointed. He had 
plainly expected a more exciting explanation. I per- 
ceived, too, that he considered my remark senti- 
mental,. though to me it was merely the expression of 
the most real and practical thing in my life. Never- 
theless, he pondered the matter very carefully. 

“I suppose that shows you’ve had a pretty happy 
marriage.” 

“It has been happy,” I said, with the complacence 
that I hate in other married men. 

“That was the first thing I noticed about you,” he 
went on, faintly smiling. “That is,” he corrected, 
“since I found out that night at the Van Zandts’ 
that you really were married.” 

“Oh, that incident!” I exclaimed, tossing back my 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 175 

head to show that I was making a humorous note of 
his reference. 

“You see,” Teddy went on, thrusting out his chin 
in a way that was expressive but far from beautiful, 
“I know a good many married people, and I have n’t 
been able to see that they’re very happy. But you 
and your wife seem to hit it off great.” 

“Well, you must be a mind-reader,” I said. “You 
have n’t seen so very much of us.” 

“Oh, but you can generally tell,” he said, care- 
lessly. “There are plenty of ways.” He scowled at 
the scenery on the opposite side of the river. “You 
can often feel it.” He kicked out his legs in a way 
that suggested impatience with himself. “I suppose 
I have n’t got my knowledge of married life in a very 
edifying sort of way, and perhaps it’s sort of clouded 
my views a little. But I believe in happy mar- 
riages!” he exclaimed with his comic doggedness. 

He ran his fingers into his hair, and in the fierce 
sunlight I noticed that his forehead was painfully 
creased, like a middle-aged man’s. Around his eyes, 
too, were the premature and preliminary marks of 
age. He was plainly suffering, not from any pro- 
found cause, I suspected, but simply because, unused 
to diplomacy, he was in a situation where he felt he 
must try to be diplomatic. 

“Did you have much experience before you were 
married?” Teddy suddenly asked. 

It struck me as exceedingly impertinent of this boy 
to pry into my affairs, even by way of getting at his 
own interests. Teddy waited with serene uncon- 
sciousness till I was ready to speak. 


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“When a man marries,” I said at last, “and mar- 
ries happily, everything of a sentimental nature that 
has happened before seems trifling.” 

“Oh!” said Teddy, and I thought his tone was 
satirical. At any rate, it brought me down from my 
high plane. 

“It’s this way with me,” Teddy went on, with the 
air of finding any one but himself an unprofitable 
and disappointing topic. “ I suppose I ’ve been what 
you’d call ‘spoiled’ all my life. I’ve had plenty of 
money and I’ve had my own way ever since I can 
remember. My father used to think it was smart 
when I’d turn on my nurse and try to hit her with 
my fist. I suppose that was his idea of being manly. 
Well, the fact is, I’ve changed my ideas a good deal 
lately — ever since I began to be interested in Letty 
Henderson.” 

He looked at me to study the effect of this state- 
ment. In order to punish him for saying “Oh,” in 
that contemptuous way, I made my face blank and I 
said nothing. Of course, he wanted to find out if I 
was surprise^. 

“I don’t know whether you’ve noticed,” he said, 
in a tone so meek that I came near softening toward 
him again. 

“No, I had n’t,” I carelessly replied, and I thought 
of all the times I had accused Alice of acting. 

“Well, your wife knows,” Teddy announced, and 
I felt as if I had been caught. 

“Why do you think that?” I asked in what I en- 
deavoured to make a purely neutral tone. 

Teddy laughed. Again I had the feeling of infer- 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 177 

iority that Alice gives me when she voices her subtle 
perceptions. Teddy was obviously finding me less 
clever than he had expected me to be. He leaned 
forward and began to prod the soft earth with a 
twig. 

“Well, you see, till lately Letty — she’s been — well, 
she’s nice to every one. It would be hard for her to 
throw any one down — openly, I mean. I knew all 
along that she did n’t have much use for me. I sup- 
pose she’s heard all kinds of yarns about me — and 
then, perhaps she did n’t — well, anyway, till to-day 
— ’’ Teddy gave vent to his feelings in a sigh that 
was almost a groan. “I can feel all the time that 
those two women are against me.” 

“Of course I can’t tell,” I said, with shameless de- 
ceit, and I noticed that my words sounded as casual 
and sincere as when I expressed the most common- 
place truth. After all, it was a singularly easy thing 
to be a liar; the great trouble was, that to get into 
the habit of lying, especially about trifles, would tend 
to destroy your confidence in all other human beings ; 
what was so easy for oneself, must be easy for others, 
too. 

“You see, I can talk with you,” Teddy resumed. 
“But I’m afraid of your wife.” 

“Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of about my 
wife,” I said, reassuringly. 

“Perhaps not,” said Teddy, with a significance 
that I may possibly have read into his tone. And 
then it flashed upon me that Teddy was merely try- 
ing to use me to influence Alice. My self-esteem 

sank several degrees. 

12 


1 78 


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“Your wife is very sympathetic and kind,” Teddy 
continued, “and then,” he ruthlessly added, “she’s 
older than Letty. I can see that Letty admires her 
and looks up to her. Now I think your wife is great,” 
he concluded, as if defending Alice from an implica- 
tion of mediocrity. 

He waited for me to help him out ; but as, through- 
out the conversation, he had been holding on rather 
hard to the advantage, I simply waited. There are 
moments in conversation when the silence of one 
person can be mighty upsetting to the other person. 

“Now, as your wife is so much older,” Teddy re- 
sumed, with an unconsciousness that softened my 
desire to kick him, “and knows so much more about 
the world,” he happily added, “it seemed to me that 
if she understood just how I felt she would n’t be quite 
so hard on me.” 

“Oh, she is n’t hard on you!” I exclaimed, and my 
tone was so genial and sincere that for a moment it 
seemed as if I were speaking the exact truth. To 
allay any possible suspicion on his part, I added: 
“My wife is very lenient about every one,” and with 
this thought I was so touched that I felt emotion in 
my throat. 

“She’s given me an awful roast to-day.” 

“How?” I asked, sitting up. This time I was 
really astonished. 

“Oh, during the whole meal up there,” Teddy re- 
plied, nodding in the direction of the club-house. 
“I could feel it every minute.” 

“I don’t think she could have meant it,” I in- 
sisted, and then, to my amazement, I saw Teddy’s 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 179 

eyes fill with tears. He kept his head down, and he 
waited a long time before he spoke again. 

“It’s hit me kind of hard, I guess. You see, I 
never wanted anything quite so much as I ’ve wanted 
that girl to like me. And to feel that everything I 
do, everything about me, is unpleasant to her, — 
why, if I look at her, she seems to shrink away. 
Honest, she does.” 

“Ah!” I said. “You’ve made one great mistake.” 

“What’s that?” he asked with an eagerness that, 
for the moment, made his hardened face look ingenu- 
ous. 

“You’ve rushed her.” Teddy looked at me with 
parted lips and with distress in his eyes. He was 
plainly impressed and he waited for more wisdom to 
fall from my lips. “You’ve allowed her to see from 
the start how much you cared. That always frightens 
a girl.” 

“A girl like her ?” he exclaimed, and he showed 
that he grossly misunderstood my state of mind by 
adding: “A nice girl, do you mean?” 

“They’re just the kind I mean.” 

“Of course, I know,” he impatiently exclaimed, 
“that you have to play a game with the other kind. 
The more indifferent you are, the more crazy they 
are to get you — or your money,” he added with scorn. 

I felt a sudden disgust for him: it seemed odious 
that, with reference to Letty Henderson, there should 
be any talk about “the other kind.” And then I per- 
ceived how with men like Teddy, “the other kind” 
must always be associated in their minds with the 
women they respected. When women married men 


i8o 


Our Best Society 


like Teddy they inevitably classed themselves with 
“the other kind.” 

“I’ve been in some pretty bad scrapes in my life,’’ 
said Teddy, and the words sounded as if they came 
from a man advanced in years. I looked at him to 
make sure that he was really young: yes, in spite of 
the sallowness of the skin and those premature lines, 
youth dwelt in his face. “I’ve been in some pretty 
bad scrapes,’’ he repeated, grimly, “and I’ve had a 
good deal of experience; but, Gee, when I first began 
to be interested in that girl, it seemed as if I had n’t 
learned anything.” 

I made a great effort not to smile. He was so 
hopelessly at a disadvantage that I just waited. 

“It was that night at the Van Zandts’: I could n’t 
help noticing how sweet she was to everybody — 
everybody but me. I can see,” he went on, as if 
thinking aloud, “that I showed my hand too plainly. 
I tried all kinds of stunts, auto-rides, invitations to 
lunch, the theatre, and all that. I even tried to 
make myself solid with the old folks. Well, I guess 
I did that all right. Not that they care anything 
about me!” he contemptuously exclaimed. 

“You ought to have gone slow,” I sententiously 
remarked. 

“I suppose you think I’m a big chump to tell you 
all this. But I had an idea — well, on account of 
your business, writing love-stories all the time — I 
thought you’d understand.” 

Again I had the feeling of depression that so fre- 
quently afflicts me when people, not literary them- 
selves, refer to the noble calling of letters. So often, 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 1 8 1 


like Teddy, they place authors on a plane with man- 
milliners or actors, with the “non-producers” of life. 
It merely happened that in this sentimental crisis 
Teddy could not appeal to his lawyer, or to the man- 
ager of his stock-farm or to his broker. 

While I was ruminating, Teddy kept straight on: 
“Up to lately, I’ve never taken any of my love- 
affairs very seriously, and I used to think I never 
would. I’d made up my mind that it didn’t pay. 
It would interfere too much with other things.” 

“ Such as what?” 

“Well, the things I really cared about, looking 
after my horses and my farm and all that. I ’m going 
to have the finest stock-farm in the country one day 
and I’m going to breed the best blooded horses. 
That’s my ambition — or it was. I thought it would 
be enough. But lately I seem to have lost interest 
in everything. Of course, I don’t mean that exactly 
— but, well, you know what I mean.” 

“Ah, yes, I do know,” I said, stretching out my 
arms, and then the impudent boy asked : 

“Did you have to go through a hard time, too?” 

I sat up and kept my eyes turned from him. I 
felt indignant and yet amused. 

“All people who are in love go through practically 
the same experience.” 

I knew that this statement was not true; but it 
sounded so epigrammatic and wise that I could n’t 
help saying it. And, having said it, I had to stick 
to it, though Teddy was looking at me with a puzzled 
and suspicious expression. 

“ The deuce they do ! ” he said. His tone conveyed 


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a deep fear that his unhappiness might not be excep- 
tional, after all. It was hard enough to be unlucky; 
but it was much worse to be told there was no such 
thing as luck. 

“Of course, I don’t mean,” I hastened to explain 
in order to redeem myself, “that all people in love 
are unhappy ; but they all go through periods of un- 
happiness.” 

“Oh!” he said, in a long breath of relief. I saw 
now that I had a hold on him: he felt so abject I 
could say almost anything. 

At this point I had an emotional reaction. I ac- 
cused myself of taking a mean advantage of Teddy. 
When I spoke again, my tone had lost its former 
tinge of patronage. 

“There’s only one thing to do,” I said, and, under 
these words, it was pitiful to see Teddy revive. He 
was looking for a miracle to keep him out of trouble, 
as even the least superstitious people do. I let him 
revel in hope for a few moments. 

“That is, to wait,” I explained. 

“To wait!” he gasped, cast back into the depths. 
“And let some other fellow get her?” 

“There are risks in all enterprises,” I remarked, 
and again I felt ashamed. That first epigram had 
been too much for my self-control and I was exploit- 
ing myself at Teddy’s expense. “As a matter of 
fact,” I went on precipitately, “I don’t think Miss 
Henderson is the sort of girl that cares much for 
men. Anyone can see she’s not had much experi- 
ence.” 

“Oh, I hate women that have had experience,” 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 183 

Teddy lamented. “They make me sick. That’s 
why I like Letty Henderson — she’s so gentle, and 
good, and unaffected. Of course, her father’s not 
much use and her mother — well, she’s like a good 
many women that try to keep up in New York with- 
out having any money. I don’t mind all that. They 
can have my money — as much as they need. All I 
want is to settle down away from this beastly New 
York — with some one that likes a quiet life. The 
stock-farm would suit me all right.” 

“That part of it, I believe she’d like,” I said, and 
I did n’t realise till I had spoken how brutal my 
words were. “I know she doesn’t care much for 
society.” 

Teddy turned the lime-light on my speech. He 
was in the mood to take a fiendish pleasure in in- 
flicting pain on himself. 

“Yes, she’d like the stock-farm if I did n’t go with 
it.” 

“You must wait,” I repeated, with firmness. 

“And do nothing?” 

“Have you talked with her?” I asked, and he un- 
derstood at once. 

“She won’t give me a chance. But — ” he sheep- 
ishly added, “I have talked with her mother.” 

“Promised to reform and all that?” I felt very 
much at ease with Teddy at this moment. My tone 
was patriarchal. The fever, the uncertainty, the 
agony and the ecstasy of love — they all seemed far 
away from me now. I rested in a safe harbour. It 
was much better, much surer! 

“Well, something like that,” Teddy grunted. 


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“I can tell you this,” I said, and I blamed myself 
for not having offered the comfort before. “Letty 
Henderson is heart-whole. That’s something.” 

Teddy at once showed that to him it really was 
something. But, having been disappointed before, 
he felt suspicious of the comfort. 

“How do you know?” he asked, and while I was 
trying to prepare an answer to this poser he became 
more definite: “Has she told your wife so?” 

Teddy’s definiteness reduced my sympathy and 
made me shy away. I became controlled by what I 
can only regard now as a false modesty. Did this 
love-sick youth suppose that I was going to betray 
any of our family confidences ? 

“One can nearly always tell,” I remarked, and in 
proportion to my superiority, Teddy became de- 
pressed. 

“Oh, if that’s all you know about it!” he rudely 
exclaimed. Then he actually rolled on the ground. 
“Oh, I wish I was dead!” he cried out. 

“Look here, my boy!” I said, breaking through 
all reserve, “no wonder you haven’t had any luck 
with that girl! If she were to see you now and hear 
you talk, do you suppose she’d have any respect for 
you? Just because a nice girl doesn’t fall down 
before you, you begin to howl and say you wish you 
were dead.” 

Teddy sat up straight. “I guess you’re right,” 
he said. “I’m a damn fool. But I’ve never let go 
quite so bad before,” he went on. “The fact is, my 
nerves must be unstrung. I ’ve been trying to knock 
off drinking, and I’ve been in too much of a hurry.” 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 185 


“Well, you’d better take a good stiff drink the 
first chance you get.” 

Teddy looked at me steadily for a long time. Then 
he laughed. “Do you know what I thought of you 
when I first met you and heard what your business 
was? I thought you were soft. I thought you were 
one of those dilettante fellows that hang around at 
afternoon-teas and take girls out to Art Exhibitions.” 

“M’m!” I said. If some people could only know 
the sensational effect their most humorous or casual 
words make on others! 

“Do you care for sport?” Teddy asked, as if in 
celebration of his discovery that I was a real man. 

“Oh, yes,” I replied, with an indifference designed 
to rebuke him. 

“Will you come down to my place some time — the 
stock-farm — and bring your wife?” 

“You’d better ask my wife first,” I said with a 
smile. 

“I’d like that first-rate,” Teddy went on enthusi- 
astically, as if the visit were completely arranged. 
But he damaged the effect by adding: “I wish I 
could persuade Miss Henderson to come too. Per- 
haps she would,” he hopefully concluded, “if your 
wife came.” 

I reflected that for frank, outspoken selfishness, I 
had never met Teddy’s equal. And yet I could not 
help liking the fellow. 

“I’ve got some corking good horses down there.” 
Teddy’s eyes shone. He had one of those intervals 
of relief from his love-sickness that nature so merci- 
fully grants to all sickness and pain. “You’ll be 


Our Best Society 


1 86 

tickled to death with them. I ’m going to have some 
of them up for the Horse Show next week. By the 
way, you and your wife must use my box.” He hesi- 
tated, evidently planning ahead, with the swiftness 
of a great executive talent. “How about the first 
night ? Are you and your wife free ? Perhaps your 
wife would get up a box-party. Perhaps some one 
else ” 

“We’re free,” I interrupted, “and I’d like to go 
first-rate.” 

“Now Miss Henderson — ” Teddy broke in. 

“Wait just a minute. Don’t rush up and ask Miss 
Henderson this minute. Why not let her take a 
breath or two between your attentions?” 

For an instant Teddy looked angry. Then he 
calmed down. 

“I’ll leave the whole business to your wife — if 
she’ll do it,” he said humbly. 

“Now one more bit of advice,” I said, and as I 
spoke I had a wretched sense that I was in some way 
doing what amounted to disloyalty to Alice and to 
Letty Henderson too. “Many a man has lost a girl 
by being too solicitous. Be as indifferent to Miss 
Henderson as you can without snubbing her too much. 
She’ll notice the change and it will pique her.” 

Who is it, I wonder, who first wrote about “the 
war of the sexes”? Was I, by my championing of 
Teddy, taking a natural and inevitable part in that 
war? Was I favouring him just because he belonged 
to my sex? I liked Letty Henderson and yet I was 
conspiring against her. I was taking what might be 
the first step toward an entanglement that she would 


Teddy Markoe Makes an Appeal 187 


regret all her life. I deplored the weakness that had 
made me encourage Teddy. It would have been far 
better to be honest and discouraging. 

We scrambled to our feet and walked up the steep 
path. Just as we were about to emerge into the 
open, we saw through the trees, only a few yards 
away, two figures on a rustic seat: the handsome 
Mr. Cosgrave looked ill-at-ease and surly, and his 
companion was pressing a handkerchief to her eyes. 
Teddy fixed his gaze on the pair and grunted. “Aw- 
ful ruffian, that fellow!” he said, glancing quickly 
away, as if the sight recalled painful associations. 
Then he added: “I’m afraid that woman’s making 
a fool of herself. I should think by this time she’d 
know better. She’s been through enough.” 


CHAPTER XII 


OUR RETURN TO NEW YORK 


S we neared the club-house, we met Alice and 



Letty Henderson and Lily Valentine walking 
toward us. “Well, I don’t think you’re very polite,” 
Miss Valentine called out, plainly addressing me. 
Without waiting for me to reply, she continued: 
“Here I thought we were going to have a beautiful 
talk about our great comedy.” 

“Let us have it now,” I replied, with an attempt 
to be cheerful, though I instantly realised the double 
complication I was creating. 

“I’m afraid we are in the way,” said Alice in a 
tone so perfectly good-humoured that I inwardly 
quaked . 

“There’s a ripping view where we were sitting,” 
Teddy cut in, with an eagerness altogether at vari- 
ance with my instructions. “Suppose we go down 
there while these two people talk over their play.” 

“ Oh, but we must n’t go without — ” Alice turned 
and waved her hand to Monty, who was standing on 
the porch. The boy instantly ran toward us. 

“I thought you were going to abandon me to the 
old ladies,” he gasped, and Alice, without glancing at 
Lily Valentine or me, started down the hill. Letty 
Henderson gave me a parting smile, which made me 


1 88 


Our Return to New York 189 


feel a little more comfortable. It was curious, but at 
that moment I hated the thought of talking about 
the play. It seemed somehow inappropriate. The 
fact was, I suppose, that I wished to get away with 
Alice and talk over Teddy’s revelations. 

“Now let us squat right down here,” said Miss 
Valentine, and she gracefully dropped on the turf, 
tucking her pretty little feet under the edge of her 
gown. “We sha’n’t scandalise the tabby-cats by 
going off alone and we can get to work.” 

Miss Valentine laughed into my face and authori- 
tatively patted her dress to indicate that she was 
about to start the discussion of business. “I’ve 
been thinking of our play every minute,” she said. 
“It’s so nice to have something serious to think about 
while a lot of silly people are around you, isn’t it?” 
For the moment she seemed to have forgotten that I 
was Alice’s husband. “That’s one advantage of 
being with a lot of women. I do my hardest think- 
ing then.” She nervously twisted and went on with 
a change of tone: “Now I have a beautiful idea. 
Suppose, instead of your writing the play with Walter 
Hart, suppose you write it with me.” 

“With you?” I gasped, and I had an impulse to 
dash down the hill to Alice for protection. It was all 
up with that play of mine! 

Miss Valentine briskly nodded. “ I’ve always been 
crazy to write a play — especially since I’ve known 
Walter Hart. If it’s so easy for him, why can’t 
other people do it? I believe it’s very largely a 
knack. He’s got into the habit of it, and that’s 
how he turns them out so fast. Why, at rehearsal, 


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190 

I ’ve seen him sit in the wings or on an old property- 
table with a pad on his knee and write out a whole 
scene — with all those funny little twists in the speeches 
and in the business that he’s so wonderful at. I’m 
sure we could do it,” Miss Valentine confidently 
insisted. 

I had a maudlin impulse to weep. And only a few 
minutes before I had been so grand with Teddy! 
Here I was, an author, at the mercy of this self-im- 
portant little actress! She knew I was so crazy to 
get a play produced that she thought she could do 
anything with me. 

As she kept her eyes fixed on my face, I had to 
speak. So I said, in desperation, trying to keep my 
voice from sounding contemptuous: “Why don’t 
you take the book yourself, Miss Valentine, and make 
a play out of it?” 

“Alone?” she gasped, and I perceived that I had 
made a master-stroke. I looked straight ahead, over 
the tops of the trees. 

“Don’t you think you could do it?” I asked 
quietly, and Miss Valentine burst out laughing. 

“You don’t want to collaborate with me, do you?” 

“Do you really think we could accomplish any- 
thing?” I asked. 

“I could help a lot in practical ways,” she argued, 
almost pleadingly. “That’s what is so hard at the 
beginning.” 

“How did Hart learn?” I asked. 

“ Oh, how did he learn ? That ’s the marvel. He ’s 
like those people who can play the most wonderful 
things on the piano without ever taking lessons. 


Our Return to New York 


191 

Of course,” Miss Valentine went on archly, “you may 
be an improviser, too.” Before I had time to assert 
my innate modesty, she was flying ahead: “I want 
to play something with a little depth to it and, from 
your scenario, I can see that there are some beauti- 
fully pathetic scenes to be worked up for Francesca. 
I know I can’t do heavy things yet — though some 
day I am determined to do Lady Macbeth. You 
think that’s silly, don’t you? Perhaps it is. But, 
nearly every night just before I go to bed, I practise 
the sleep-walking scene. Oh, you may laugh as much 
as you like,” she pouted. 

It was a great relief to my feelings to laugh, though 
to my ears the sound seemed forced. After all, Lily 
Valentine was a mere child. Her pretty face, the 
whim of a manager, and chance had converted her, 
while she ought to be at school, into a theatrical 
celebrity. 

“But now let’s not talk about me ,” she resumed. 
“Let’s talk about our wonderful play. Now I’ll tell 
you in the greatest confidence that I don’t believe we 
can possibly make a go of the miserable thing Walter 
Hart has done for me. Sometimes he can fool them; 
but lately — Why, do you know, three of his plays 
have failed, one after the other? People are getting 
tired of his way of looking at life, and, in the country, 
they simply don’t know what to make of it. By ‘the 
country,’ you know, I mean places like Providence, 
and Scranton, and McKeesport. Have you ever been 
in McKeesport? Oh, dear!” 

“What was your idea about collaborating?” I 
meekly asked. 


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“Well, I want to own the play outright. That 
will make me more independent of Holbrook.’ ’ 

“Ah!” I said, but inaudibly. 

“As things are now, I am at his mercy. I make a 
play a success, and when I get through with it he 
owns it, and he can send it out with some other act- 
ress, who makes a lot of money for him. And then, 
of course, his owning my plays gives him a great hold 
on me.” 

“If you don’t look out, you’ll be managing your- 
self one of these days!” I said wamingly. 

“If I only could!” Miss Valentine exclaimed. 
“What bliss! To be perfectly free — like a man!” 

“Are n’t you free now?” 

“Free!” the girl echoed. “I’m the greatest slave 
in the world. Everybody interferes with me. When 
it is n’t Holbrook, it’s Walter Hart, and when it is n’t 
Walter Hart it’s Mrs. Smith or one of the girls at 
home or some wretched reporter who says that I ’m 
engaged to somebody. Last season my engagement 
was announced to seven men — one of them my 
leading-man. I had n’t spoken to him since the 
first night — he was so jealous of my success and so 
hateful. He was tickled almost to death when the 
announcement was made in the newspapers. He 
knew it would make me so cross. But come now,” 
she said, with a petulant change of tone, “we do get 
so personal , you and I, don’t we? The custom is, as 
you may know, to pay five hundred dollars in ad- 
vance.” The voice of the actress grew remote and 
measured ; she herself seemed to have receded several 
feet. “Of course, a man like Walter Hart gets a 


Our Return to New York 193 


good deal more. Holbrook paid him ten thousand 
dollars before he even thought of the scenario for my 
play. Now if you and I work together, we ought to 
make some sort of division. The scenario is yours 
and you’ll probably do most of the writing, though 
some of the scenes I shall want to do myself. Any- 
way, I will pay you five hundred dollars in advance, 
just as if you were going to do the play alone, and, 
after that, we ’ll divide the usual five per cent, royalty 
of the gross receipts into two parts, two thirds for you 
and one third for me. Your five hundred will, of 
course, be deducted from the royalties of the first 
performances.” 

I had a curious impulse to lie back on the ground 
and roll, exactly as I had seen Teddy do a short time 
before. But I don’t think that even the muscles 
around my mouth twitched. I considered the pro- 
position with ponderous gravity. Then I uttered 
this sententious remark, looking up as wise people 
are supposed to do when about to make a pronounce- 
ment: 

“I will think the matter over, Miss Valentine.” 

“Oh!” said the actress, with disappointment in her 
tone. Then she added: “Think of all the money 
people make by writing plays. It’s ever so much 
more profitable than the story-writing business.” 

“I know, I know,” I said impatiently, and I 
thought of the little house in the country that Alice 
and I were to have. I felt as if the actress were try- 
ing to place a heavy mortgage on it. I visualised it 
as a low, rambling, old-fashioned house, with simple 
white muslin curtains at the windows, and with a 
13 


i 9 4 


Our Best Society 


barn at the back. Then I saw the mortgage descend 
on it like a cloud, slowly, slowly, till it was obliterated 
from sight. 

“And then ,” the actress went on, “when you make 
one success, you’re sure to get plenty of chances to 
do other plays. Walter Hart simply turns away 
offers.” 

“I’ll talk with my wife about it,” I said, and Miss 
Valentine appeared so surprised and alarmed that I 
went on with an unconsciousness of acting that, as I 
look back at it, strikes me as sublime: “ I never make 
any contracts without consulting my wife.” As I 
spoke, I seemed fairly to swell with virtuous loyalty. 
I felt like a model husband. I was like those actors 
who identify themselves with heroic roles while walk- 
ing down Broadway. 

At that moment Alice came up the hill, followed 
by Letty Henderson with Monty and Teddy. They 
were talking and laughing in the merriest way. Teddy 
looked younger and more innocent than I had ever 
seen him. 

“It’s nearly time to start back,” Miss Henderson 
exclaimed, and Lily Valentine, leaping to her feet, 
replied : 

“Wasn’t there some talk about tea a little while 
ago?” 

“Where’s Mrs. Eustace?” Letty Henderson asked. 

“There she is on the porch!” Monty cried, with 
astonishment in his tone. Then he added: “They 
must have started around by the hill to keep out of 
our way.” 

“Doesn’t it seem as if we had eaten about two 


Our Return to New York 


i95 


minutes ago? ” Lily Valentine vexatiously asked. 
Then she drew close to me and said in a low voice: 
“Now you will let me hear from you as soon as you 
can, won’t you? Perhaps you can come around to 
the theatre to-night.” 

I did not have a chance to reply, for a noisy col- 
loquy began between our little group and the older 
people on the porch. They reproached us with hav- 
ing kept them from their tea. They all seemed tired 
and cross, with the exception of Mrs. Eustace, whose 
face fairly beamed on us. 

The air had grown chill and we went into the 
house for tea, sinking into wicker chairs in front of a 
big open-fire. “I hope we sha’n’t freeze to death 
going home,” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. 

“There is a moment,” I heard Cosgrave whisper to 
Alice, “when festivities like this ought suddenly to 
cease. Don’t you remember that clever actor who used 
to obliterate scenes in his plays by plunging them 
suddenly into darkness ? It was an ingenious device 
and wonderfully effective. Well, festivities ought to 
end like that, before people get bored to death.” 

“What would happen to the people?” Alice asked 
with her clear common-sense. 

“Oh, we ought to be able to obliterate ourselves at 
will. It would be a great comfort at times,” the 
painter replied, lifting a cup of tea from the tray the 
waiter was passing. 

“I should think it might be a great convenience,” 
Alice said in the short, dry tone with which she re- 
plies to people whose talk seems to her insincere or 
foolish. 


9 6 


Our Best Society 


“Do you know, I think you’re wonderfully orig- 
inal?” Cosgrave said, and I felt so irritable that I 
rose from my seat and walked straight over to the 
place beside a comer of the fireplace where Letty 
Henderson was sitting. 

“Have you enjoyed the day?” she asked, and as I 
was about to make a wry face, I realised that it would 
seem rude. So I said as pleasantly as I could : 

“It has given me some things to think over.” 

She grew pensive. Finally she remarked in a low 
voice: “It has given me some things to think over, 
too.” 

Teddy had disappeared, and in a few minutes the 
coach was at the door. By some manoeuvring, on 
whose part I could not make out, Cosgrave was placed 
beside Alice and I sat with Mrs. Eustace and Miss 
Henderson. The air was growing steadily colder, 
with the dampness of late autumn. As we swept 
down the hills the sun was majestically setting behind 
the Palisades. The horses seemed to share our eager- 
ness to reach New York and we fairly dashed along 
the road. With a thrill I saw the lights of the city 
welcoming us in the distance and growing nearer and 
nearer. It was a positive joy to reach Fifth Avenue 
again and to bowl along past the crowd of pedestrians, 
racing madly up-town. 

When we reached the Holland House we were 
numb from sitting so long in the cold air. It was 
uncanny to leap to the sidewalk and to feel the earth 
moving unsteadily underfoot. We all seemed actu- 
ated by a powerful desire to escape. Our good-byes 
were said with forced laughter. I thought of Kant’s 


Our Return to New York 197 


statement that human beings really hate one another, 
but feel an irresistible desire for the society of their 
kind. It was terrible to me to think of going to the 
Hendersons’ to dinner. I longed to take Alice on 
my arm and bolt. I pined for the sight of our 
little apartment, and I even thought of Mary with 
affection. 

“You won’t forget about the sitting to-morrow,’’ 
I heard Cosgrave say to Alice as we were trying to 
break away. 

“Oh, no!” Alice replied, with a truly distressful 
gaiety. I knew she was dead tired ; but she would n’t 
give up or relax till we reached home, no matter what 
the cost might be. 

“I ’ll come for you at eleven o’clock,” Mrs. Eustace 
called out after us. 

When we reached the house, we passed into a 
dimly lighted, narrow hall and up a green-carpeted 
staircase. “I’m going to take you into my room, 
Alice, dear,” said Miss Henderson, “and let you have 
a good rest. There!” she cried, throwing open the 
door at the head of the stairs. “You’ll have at least 
half an hour and no one shall come near you. I’ll 
go and see mamma!” 

She disappeared like a sprite and I followed Alice 
into the room. I noticed that it was all in blue 
with many fancy ornamentations, a typical girl’s 
room. 

I closed the door carefully and I stood with my 
back pressed against it. 

“What do you think?” I said. “That little act- 
ress wants to collaborate with me.” 


198 


Our Best Society 


Alice had made a bee-line for the mirror and was 
making a careful study of the way she had been ap- 
pearing before the others. She slowly drew the hat- 
pins from her hat. Then she lifted her hat from her 
head and drew off her jacket. 

“Well?” I said. 

“I’m not surprised,” Alice replied. 

“What do you suppose she’s up to?” 

“An advertisement, naturally,” Alice replied in a 
tone that rebuked the absurdity of the question. 
Then she added: “But that’s only one reason.” 
“What else?” 

“I suppose she wants the whole play to herself. 
That’s why she’s dissatisfied with her present play. 
The part isn’t good enough.” Alice smiled wearily. 
“She wants to keep you from making the mistake 
Walter Hart made.” 

“So she isn’t really looking for a play?” I help- 
lessly interpreted. “She’s looking for a great part. 
She wants to be the whole show.” 

“Well, naturally,” Alice agreed, impatient at being 
obliged to discuss so obvious a matter. 

Alice walked toward me with a look of impatience 
in her face ; she was plainly eager to go on to another 
subject. 

“What was it you were going to tell me?” she said. 
“Something about Mrs. Eustace and Cosgrave.” 

“Oh!” Faced with this question, I felt ashamed. 
How could I gossip about those people even with 
Alice ? “I happened to catch them in the middle of a 
tiff,” I replied. 

“M’m!” said Alice, with a frown. “It was dis- 


Our Return to New York 


199 


graceful — the whole thing,” she added, in a manner 
that asked me to let the subject remain closed. 

“I’m sorry you made that appointment,” I ven- 
tured, removing my coat and throwing it on a chair. 

“I simply could n’t get out of it,” Alice retorted. 

“I don’t like your being mixed up with those 
people.” 

“Oh, I can take care of myself, my dear. Be- 
sides ” 

“Besides what?” 

“I pity her .” 

I was about to say, “What has that got to go with 
it?” But Alice cut in with, “What in the world did 
you and Teddy have to say to each other?” 

“Oh!” For the moment I had forgotten that 
little talk. When I narrated it to Alice, she listened, 
her eyes big with astonishment. 

“Why did n’t you tell me that before?” she asked, 
indignantly, and I saw that her interest in Teddy’s 
sentimental disclosures eclipsed every other event of 
the day, even that absurd suggestion of Lily Valen- 
tine’s! 


CHAPTER XIII 


A GLIMPSE OF LETTY’S HOME LIFE 

W HEN Letty Henderson came to the door, she 
wore a simple white-muslin frock that made 
her look hardly more than sixteen. 

“Mamma is waiting to see you,” she said, address- 
ing Alice, and we followed her down the steps. I 
wonder why it was that I had a guilty feeling and 
why I suspected that Mrs. Henderson was not nearly 
so eager to see us as her daughter had represented. 

Whatever may have been the truth, Mrs. Hender- 
son received us most graciously. To my astonish- 
ment I found her very like Letty, only damaged, 
terribly damaged. In the mother, the girl’s willowy 
slimness had been emphasised into rigidity, into what 
impressed me as an irresistible determination to be 
slim, and Letty ’s ethereal blondness had assumed, in 
Mrs. Henderson’s hair and complexion, a vivid glow 
that was of neither earth nor heaven. In fact, the 
mother of that exquisite creature, that child, as she 
seemed to me at the moment, was shamelessly dyed 
and made up, and the artificiality, by contrasting the 
appearance of youth that she undertook to achieve 
and the ineffaceable signs of her age, made her seem 
distressingly old at one moment and distressingly 
young at another. Her costume was uncompromis- 


200 


A Glimpse of Letty’s Home Life 201 

ingly young, of pink silk, tight-fitting, and revealing 
a really beautiful throat and neck. I marvelled that, 
for us, she should array herself so elaborately. 

The remarks that followed our greetings consisted 
of the neutral talk by which people try to glean im- 
pressions of one another. It speedily became plain 
that Mrs. Henderson had pigeon-holed me to her sat- 
isfaction and was finding Alice more difficult. As 
Alice made faintly satirical comments on the events 
of the day, Mrs. Henderson’s eyes, in observing her, 
seemed to grow bluer and keener and smaller. 

Presently a tall handsome man, with thin brown 
hair and smooth face, strode into the room. In even- 
ing-dress as he was, he nevertehless had the air of a 
general, as generals appear on the stage. His shoul- 
ders were splendidly broad ; his air was nobly resolute ; 
from his large grey eyes and his finely cut features 
there seemed to radiate a generous sympathy for the 
whole human race. To my astonishment, Mrs. Hen- 
derson greeted him as if she did not know him very 
well and had not seen him for some time. “Good- 
evening, Mr. Henderson,’’ she said. 

He replied with a low bow and a sonorous “Good- 
evening, my dear.’’ Before his wife had time to 
speak the words of introduction, he turned deferen- 
tially to Alice and extended his hand. He held the 
hand, placing his left hand over it, while his wife 
explained that Alice was one of Letty’s friends. “I 
am always delighted to meet any of Letty’s friends,” 
he said impressively, and he patted Alice’s fingers 
with what was doubtless designed to appear as pater- 
nal affection. He greeted me with a warmth only 


202 


Our Best Society 


slightly modified. As I sat in my seat again, some- 
what overcome by this welcome, a young man in 
evening-dress, with a round pink face and light curly 
hair, entered the room. Supposing him to be a 
guest, I rose quickly. Mrs. Henderson rose, too, and 
I heard the young man say in a low voice, “Dinner 
is served, Madame.” 

“Let us go in at once,” Mrs. Henderson said, and 
as we followed quite informally I realised that she 
was covering up my blunder. The consciousness of 
the blunder would have made me uneasy and silent 
if Henderson had not at once drawn me into talk. 

“You are a fortunate man to be able to take a 
holiday at this time of year,” he said. “Ah, how I 
envy those people who are able to stop working for 
a time! We are all work-mad. I never have an hour 
of the day to myself. All I ’ve had to eat to-day was 
a sandwich that I sent out for from the floor of the 
Exchange.” 

Neither Mrs. Henderson nor her daughter seemed 
to be saddened by this remark. They acted as if 
they had heard it, or something like it, many times 
before. 

An atmosphere of gloom suddenly enveloped the 
table. Alice looked scared. Like me, I perceived 
that she was wondering what we had got into. 

“I suppose you are down-town,” Henderson care- 
lessly remarked, and before I could reply, he went 
on rapidly: “Now I have n’t asked you what you’re 

going to drink. My dear Mrs. Foster ” He 

leaned forward obsequiously. 

Letty’s mother cut in, with an air that was curi- 


A Glimpse of Letty’s Home Life 203 


ously defiant. “We drink claret and Scotch whisky 
and beer, Mrs. Foster. We have some claret that is 
rather good. I always drink it at dinner.” 

“I don’t think I will drink anything,” Alice calmly 
replied. 

Henderson bent his head toward me with the solici- 
tude that I had begun to hate and dread. “ Since Mrs. 
Henderson has confessed her preference,” he said, 
and the tone of his voice rather than the words con- 
veyed the rebuke of sarcasm, “ I will confess mine. I 
always drink Scotch.” 

“I’ll drink some Scotch with you,” I said, and 
that preliminary disposed of, we went on more com- 
fortably. The impressive-looking butler brought on 
a simple meal; but everything, including the lobster 
croquettes, was beautifully cooked and served. Hen- 
derson talked almost incessantly, chiefly about him- 
self. As I had surmised, he was a stock-broker and 
a promoter, and, as the meal proceeded and as he 
took steady draughts of the Scotch, he made it plain 
that, in spite of his air of opulence, he belonged to 
the great army of the disappointed and the embit- 
tered. I had been prevented from explaining that I 
was not a business-man and he accepted me as one 
worthy of hearing his comments on the leaders of 
finance in New York. Those comments were ex- 
ceedingly uncomplimentary and they were obviously 
familiar to his wife, for as she listened she languished. 

“We are going to have a terrible upheaval in this 
country some day,” said Henderson, “and it’s going 
to have its start right here in New York. Do you 
realise” he cried, with excitement, “that during the 


204 


Our Best Society 


past ten years in Pittsburgh alone as many as a hun- 
dred millionaires have sprung up — a hundred mil- 
lionaires?” he emphatically concluded. 

“Well, the poor things deserve it for having to live 
in Pittsburgh,” said Mrs. Henderson. 

“They don’t live in Pittsburgh after they make 
their money,” Henderson testily retorted. 

“That’s where they show their good sense,” Mrs. 
Henderson went on, with a serenity that gave me a 
nervous impulse to laugh. “They come straight to 
New York.” 

“Well, New York is no place for a man unless he 
has at least a million,” Henderson grumbled. Then 
he raised his voice again. “This state of affairs can’t 
keep on going as it ’s been doing for the past twenty- 
five years. The people will rise up. They must. If 
they had any sense, they’d have risen up long ago. 
They’re being robbed, systematically robbed.” 

“Oh, Frank, it isn’t any worse now than it’s 
always been,” said Mrs. Henderson, impatiently. 
“Business has always been an organised system of 
robbery. It ’s simply that the cleverest people get the 
most.” 

Henderson made no reply. His attitude expressed 
the familiar masculine idea that women were always 
silly when they discussed business. 

When we had finished dessert, Mrs. Henderson rose 
from the table and said that we would take coffee in 
the drawing-room. I noticed that we all seemed 
fatigued — all but Henderson. The talk that had ex- 
hausted us left him strong. In the drawing-room he 
seemed to get a second wind and he fell into a more 


A Glimpse of Letty's Home Life 205 


amiable mood. As soon as he had taken his coffee, 
he announced that he must leave us. 

“I’m so very sorry,” he said to Alice, “but I ’m 
due at a boresome political-club meeting. You’ll 
forgive me, won’t you?” 

Alice at once adopted her casual manner. “We 
shall have to go directly ourselves. We’ve had such 
a long day.” 

Henderson pinched his daughter’s cheek. ‘ ‘ By-by, 
little one,” he said, and the girl blushed, for shame, 
I thought. Then he turned to his wife: “Are you 
off too?” he asked, with a cold glance at her dress. 
She answered him by speaking directly to Alice. 

“ I wish I could have known you were coming when 
I made my engagement for to-night. The Drapers 
are having some of the opera people at their house 
and I promised Mrs. Draper ” 

“Ah, but Letty knows we couldn’t stay,” Alice 
remarked, and away went Henderson, and five 
minutes later Alice and I were walking down the 
steps. 

For the sake of complete discretion I walked for 
at least five yards before speaking. 

“Well, if that was n’t the limit!” I exclaimed. 

“Poor Letty!” Alice murmured. 

“But the marvel is how she ever happened!” 

“In that interior!” Alice echoed. Then she 
quickly added: “The mother is n’t so bad. That is, 
if she had plenty of money, she would n’t seem so 
bad. The trouble is she’s been a great beauty 
and she’s been admired and spoiled. She hasn’t 
anything to live for but her beauty, displaying it 


206 


Our Best Society 


and ornamenting it. And she’s worrying it away 
every minute of her life. Of course, it’s the 
husband.” 

“I should think having him around the house 
would spoil any beauty.” 

“He’s the sort of man who would impress some 
people tremendously. When he was young he must 
have fooled a lot of people — besides her. What an 
awful responsibility for Letty!” 

At this point I lost the clue. “I can’t see how 
Letty is responsible.” 

“For his future, I mean. Could n’t you see from 
the bitter way he spoke about those Wall Street men 
that they hadn’t any use for him? It’s wonderful 
how he keeps up in this dreadfully expensive city. 
I must say now that I have more respect for Teddy. 
Think of being willing to stand for that artificial 
mother and that empty-headed father. Really there 
must be a lot of good in Teddy.” 

But at that moment I did not feel like discussing 
Teddy. He seemed far away. 

For a long time we walked on in silence. Then I 
said: “I hope that Mary has had a good day.” 

That remark roused Alice. Her mind had evi- 
dently been wandering far from our little flat, and 
she at once began to worry. As we neared the house 
she accused herself for staying away so long. The 
outbreak of the self-accusing habit is one of Alice’s 
signs of extreme nervousness. 

There was not the sign of light in our apartment 
and we fairly ran up -stairs. By this time I had 
caught some of Alice’s agitation, I unlocked the 


A Glimpse of Letty’s Home Life 207 


door and plunged into pitch darkness. In a few 
minutes the place was brilliantly lighted. 

“Oh!” Alice exclaimed. 

My masculine senses had detected nothing. The 
place seemed to be in perfect order. 

“Something dreadful has happened,” Alice tragic- 
ally whispered. 

At that moment an apparition stood at the kitchen 
door, a bedraggled, blear-eyed, frowsy caricature of 
humanity, bearing a degraded resemblance to Mary. 
Alice stood in horror, speechless. In a few seconds 
Mary came unsteadily toward us. 

“Good-evening, Mary,” Alice said with a ghastly 
pretence of being pleasant. Mary turned her blear 
eyes on Alice’s face; they blinked as if blinded by 
the light; then they filled with tears. 

“Oh, my darlin’ child, this is a terrible sight fer 
yer.” 

“It is a terrible sight, Mary.” Alice spoke stead- 
ily and with dignity. 

“Sure ’t is ashamed, I am, an’ ye’ve been so good 
to me.” 

“ I trusted you, Mary,” said Alice, with a 
grandeur of utterance that gave me a wild impulse 
to laugh. 

“Don’t I know that?” Mary exclaimed reproach- 
fully, as if a deadly insult had been hurled at her. 
“An’ don’t I know that you’re the sweetest creature 
that ever breathed, with never a cross word from 
momin’ till night no matter how things goes wrong. 
An’ obliged to live with the most awful crank that 
ever walked the earth, always complainin’ an’ good 


208 


Our Best Society 


fer nothin’ an’ never doin’ a stroke of work, sittin’ 
up with his books like a fine gentleman. It’s too 
good he thinks he is to go out an’ earn an honest 
livin’ with his two hands!” 

Shall I be believed when I say that my first sensa- 
tion on hearing these words was one of great relief? 
At last, I knew what Mary thought of me. 

“You have no right to speak like that, Mary,” 
said Alice, indignantly. 

“ ’T is no word I have to say against you, darlin’. 
If ever an angel came down from heaven ” 

“Mary!” My voice rang through that apartment 
like a bugle-call. I was astonished to hear it and I 
think that Alice was astonished too. Mary unques- 
tionably was, for she looked alarmed. She straight- 
ened up to meet the onslaught. 

Having asserted my manhood in that splendid 
fashion, I did n’t know what to do. I perceived that 
my impulse to turn Maiy out in the street was im- 
practicable. In the first place, she would n’t go, 
without being forced. And then the scandal, the 
neighbours, the appearance of the police! 

“Well?” Mary responded in stentorian challenge, 
her arms at her waist. 

“If you don’t go straight back to your room I’ll 
call a policeman,” I said in a low voice. 

Mary had expected so much more from me in the 
way of argument that she looked disappointed. She 
drew out the comers of her mouth in preparation for 
a retort. Then Alice rushed forward and placed 
both hands on her shoulders. 

“Mary, dear, don’t be cross, please, for my sake. 


A Glimpse of Letty’s Home Life 209 


I know you are n’t feeling well. So do let me take 
you into your room and help you into bed.” 

Touched by this expression of sympathy, Mary 
leaned against Alice and burst into tears. “Sure 
I’d do anything in the wide world fer you, darlin’. 
You poor, down-trodden child, if he ever dares to say 
a cross word to you again ” 

“He won’t, Mary. He won’t. I promise you.” 

“He’d better not.while I’m around,” Mary sobbed. 

“Ned, go out of the room,” Alice whispered, and 
as I turned, she added: “Close the door, Ned.” 

I obeyed, feeling like a cur. At the door, I listened 
and I could hear Alice’s words mingled with Mary’s 
tears. Then the shuffling of feet told me that the 
two were gradually making their way to the kitchen. 
I sank into a chair and for ten minutes I waited. 
When Alice returned, carrying in her hand a long 
ugly black bottle, I felt as if I had aged several 
years. “She’s asleep,” she whispered. 

I fixed my eyes on the bottle. “After getting 
around all that, her slumber ought to be profound.” 

“Let us open all the windows, dearest,” Alice said 
pathetically. Then she looked down at her clothes. 
“Why, we have n’t taken our coats off, have we?” 

We kept on our wraps till we had the place 
thoroughly aired and then warm again. I sat where 
I could keep an eye on the kitchen door. 

“ I ’ve locked her in, Ned. So you need n’t worry,” 
Alice said. 

I took her hand and clasped it tightly. “I’m not 
thinking about that,” I said. 

“What, then?” 

14 


210 


Our Best Society 


“About you, Alice.” My voice shook. 

“You silly thing, what is the matter with 
you?” 

“Alice!” 

“Well?” 

“Have n’t I always been good to you?” 

“O Ned!” Alice petulantly exclaimed. 

“Well, haven’t I?” 

“Of course.” 

“Do I make you unhappy sometimes?” 

“Only when you’re silly — like this.” 

I felt ashamed of my weakness; but I had to get 
comfort. 

“What do you suppose put those ideas into her 
head?” 

“Whose head?” Alice asked in a tone of complete 
mystification. 

“Mary’s,” I replied humbly, as if speaking of the 
Queen of England. 

For a few moments Alice looked bewildered. Then 
she burst out laughing and she laughed until I seized 
her by both arms and stopped her with a kiss. 

“0 Ned, I didn’t know that you could be so 
absurd.” 

“Well,” I insisted, “I’d like to know what put 
those ideas into her head.” 

“She wanted to have a fight with some one — 
that’s all.” 

We sat up late planning to get rid of Mary and 
talking over the events of the day. We both felt as 
if several days had passed since we left the house 
with Letty Henderson in the morning. And we 


A Glimpse of Letty’s Home Life 21 1 


agreed, as soon as we could, to sink back into our 
old routine of peace and systematic work. 

“Now, dear Ned, to-morrow you must go to your 
desk right after breakfast and stay there till I come 
back from the studio.” 

“ Oh! ” I groaned. “The idea of that fellow paint- 
ing your portrait. Why did n’t I rebel when it was 
first spoken of?” 

“ But think, dear! What harm can it do? If 
Mr. Cosgrave makes a success of it he’ll exhibit it 
at the American Artists and it will be talked about 
a lot. It will help to bring you more before the 
public.” 

“This talk about being before the public is begin- 
ning to be horrible to me. What dress are you going 
to wear?” 

“Why, the one I wore at the Van Zandts’. It’s 
the only one that’s fit.” 

“That low-cut thing! Very well,” I helplessly ex- 
claimed. “Wear anything you like. Make yourself 
exactly like an actress. Be gazed at as if you were 
a spectacle. Get mixed up with people like Mrs. 
Eustace and be drawn into some scandal or tragedy. 
Of course, that’s what those two people are pre- 
paring for. Don’t consider me.” 

“You are the only one I am considering, Ned.” 
Alice spoke with a calmness that alarmed me. In 
the silence that followed I thought I could hear the 
quick beating of her heart. Finally she said: “I 
will put Mrs. Eustace off. When she comes to-mor- 
row I will tell her I am ill. Of course, what you say 
about the scandal and tragedy is absurd. You’ve 


212 


Our Best Society 


taken the whole matter far too seriously. Your 
fictional mind has simply run away with you.” 

I literally threw up my hands. “ Go to-morrow by 
all means! ” I exclaimed. 

I hoped, I believed, that Alice would not go. In 
fact, I felt such assurance that I practically dismissed 
the matter from my mind. By this time it was 
nearly twelve o’clock, and I started to lock up for the 
night. As I approached the front door, I heard 
heavy steps in the hall. Then the bell rang, and a 
moment later a messenger was handing me a tele- 
gram. I opened it quickly and two pairs of eyes 
read these words: 

“Be at my house to-morrow at ten sharp. We 
must talk about our great play. 

“Lily Valentine.” 

While I looked for a fee for the messenger, Alice 
walked into the dining-room. I found her standing 
beside the table absorbed in thought. “What does 
it mean?” I asked, instinctively appealing to her 
intuition. 

“It may mean several things,” Alice replied. “But 
I think there is one real explanation.” 

I waited. 

“ Business to-night has probably been bad. So her 
fear that the piece is a failure has been confirmed.” 

“Then she’ll have to put on another play.” 

Alice shook her head. “They’ll keep her here for 
a couple of weeks and then they ’ll try it on the road. 
You’ve often told me how plays sometimes fail here 
and succeed out of New York,” 


A Glimpse of Letty’s Home Life 213 


“Yes and the reverse,” I hastily assented. “Of 
course, that’s the explanation,” I went on. “She 
dreads the road. She can’t bear to be separated from 
society,” I satirically concluded. 

“McKeesport must be rather tame after what she 
has here,” said Alice, with a faint smile. “And if 
she should miss the Horse Show, I believe she’d fall 
ill. But remember,” Alice spoke with new vigour, 
“you mustn’t even consider the possibility of col- 
laborating with her. Tell her you are n’t used to 
that sort of thing. Our great play!” Alice con- 
cluded, with a scornful glance at the telegram lying 
on the table. 

Somehow the telegram swept every other con- 
sideration out of my mind. I went to bed perfectly 
content, realising that there were few things in life 
that could give such happiness as work. I resolved 
in future to avoid every distraction that would even 
remotely affect my daily task. Of course, the en- 
gagement in the morning was something quite dif- 
ferent: that was business. It was worth sacrificing 
a morning for the sake of getting an order for a play. 
The fatigue of the long day of excitement quickly 
put me to sleep, and I dreamed that my play was 
finished and scheduled for a New York production. 
I woke to find with a pang that I still had the scenes 
and the dialogue to invent. Alice was standing be- 
side my bed. 

“It’s nine o ’clock.” 

“Oh!” I rubbed my face with both hands. “How’s 
Mary?” I asked, my mind, as usual, losing no time in 
recalling the disagreeable incidents of the day before. 


2 14 


Our Best Society 


“She’s very contrite and silent.” 

“Does she remember?” 

“I think so. But she’s willing that we should 
forget.” 

“Are n’t you going to let her go?” 

“I’ll investigate the Employment Agencies first. 
And then, I ’ll let you give her notice.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


MISS VALENTINE BECOMES BUSINESS-LIKE 

T HAT remark woke me up. I had just time 
enough for shaving, dressing, and for break- 
fast, before keeping my engagement. Miss Valen- 
tine was waiting for me in her drawing-room. 

“I’ve been simply crazy to see you,” she said. 
“I thought of driving down to your house last night. 
But that would have been scandalous, would n’t it? 
But when I want to get a thing done in a hurry — 
Well, the fact is, our piece is a dead frost. The re- 
ceipts dropped shockingly last night, and Holbrook 
was wild. He’s talking of sending us all into 
the country — out West — with a lot of one-night 
stands. Now you must save me from such a fate. 
Why, I had expected to play in New York all winter.” 
“What can I do?” 

“Get to work on that play of ours.” 

“Ah, Miss Valentine, I have such a lot of work on 
hand.” 

The actress looked at me reproachfully, as if I had 
given her a blow. “I didn’t think that you were 
like that. I did n’t think that you were — well, that 
you were foxy , like the others.” 

These words put me on the defensive. “If I work 
on that play,” I said, “I shall have to stop work on 
the book I’m writing.” 


215 


216 


Our Best Society 


The actress pouted like a spoiled child. She was 
not used to being balked. 

“There are plenty of men right here in New York 
who would jump at the chance of writing a play for 
me — or with me,” she archly remarked. 

“I should like to write a play for you,” I said, in 
a neutral tone and careful of my emphasis. 

Miss Valentine laughed aloud, swaying forward 
and back in her seat. At that moment I liked her 
immensely. She was an odd-enough mixture. 

“I can’t collaborate with any one. I’m not used 
to that sort of thing.” I was determined to get 
in that remark so that I might repeat it to Alice. 

“You want all the glory for yourself, don’t you?” 
Miss Valentine lowered her face and kept her wonder- 
ful eyes fixed on me. “You are an exceedingly 
vexatious person,” she said, smiling brilliantly, and 
I had a strong suspicion that she had heard some 
one say those words and that she was practising 
them on me. Already I had noted her fondness for 
calling people “persons.” It gave her talk a know- 
ing air quite out of harmony with her girlishness. 

I said nothing in reply to her charge and I had the 
comfort of observing that she lost some of her aplomb. 
“After all,” she said, her manner becoming perfectly 
frank, “all I want is a good play, with a good part 
in it, a good part, mind you. Will you undertake to 
write it?” 

“How much time can you give me?” I was so 
pleased with the way I was keeping up my end in 
this interview, I began to believe I had business 
ability. 


Miss Valentine Business-Like 217 


“A month!” she said decisively. 

“A month!” I gasped. 

“If you can do it at all, you can do it in a month.” 

“Why, it used to take Dumas at least a year. 
And Pinero, who is pursued by actors for plays — he 
does n’t write more than one a year.” 

“Bah! That ’s all nonsense. Pinero takes his time 
and Dumas was probably lazy. Dramatists like to 
impress people by stories of that sort. What is a 
play ? It does n’t last more than two hours — except 
for the waits. Some of Walter Hart’s plays would 
last much less time if there were no waits. They ’re 
the thinnest things. There’s everything,” the actress 
solemnly pronounced, “in making up your mind to 
do a thing and then doing it.” 

“If you can,” I ventured to add in a low voice. 

“Oh, you can. You can.” The actress threw out 
her right arm and uttered the words as if she were 
playing in a Greek tragedy. 

“What terms?” I almost whispered. If I were to 
keep going down the scale in my speech, she would 
soon be unable to hear me. 

She quickly outlined a scheme of graduated royal- 
ties, from which I rapidly calculated that with good 
business it ought to bring me very nearly one hun- 
dred dollars a night. “Five hundred dollars in ad- 
vance,” she concluded, “and when I accept the play, 
fiye hundred dollars down on the day of acceptance.” 

I wonder if there is not something grasping and 
venal in all of us. Realising how keen the girl was 
to secure a play, I had a powerful temptation to get 
all I could out of her. 


2 l8 


Our Best Society 


“You see, it would be very hard for me to work 
on speculation like that,” I said, with an assumption 
of indifference. “I’d like to do the thing. I’d like 
to make the try.’’ I noticed with surprise that I was 
nodding my head with great earnestness. “But I 
can’t afford to give up a month’s work without having 
the thing pretty definitely ordered and — and ar- 
ranged,’’ I concluded, becoming suddenly alarmed by 
my own boldness. 

“Then I will give you the order! I ’ll get my attor- 
ney to send you a check and a contract to-day. 
You’ll read the play to me as you go along.’’ 

Oh, blessed mistake that she made at that moment ! 
She realised it as soon as I spoke. 

“I couldn’t undertake to do that,’’ I quickly re- 
plied. “I find I can’t read my things while they are 
under way. It’s very upsetting. Besides, I’m al- 
ways going back and changing. Until the piece was 
finished, it would be likely to be fragmentary.’’ 

“But you will let me talk with you about it.’’ 
The actress was on the verge of tears. Her tone be- 
came helplessly pleading. 

“I’ll be delighted to do that,’’ I said, and I rose 
from my seat. 

“And will you get to work right off — to-day?” 

I could not keep from smiling. “Right off — 
to-day,” I said, paying her back for trying to patron- 
ise me, and I started for the door. I could not have 
sat in that room five minutes longer. I wished to 
run, to shout. Above all things, I wished to re- 
hearse to Alice every word of the interview, every 
tone. 


Miss Valentine Business-Like 219 


“I’ll have the contract sent this afternoon,” Miss 
Valentine said at the door. 

I walked rapidly home and I ran all the way up- 
stairs. On reaching the apartment I looked through 
the rooms. In the distance Mary was busily occu- 
pied with preparation for luncheon. 

“Where is Mrs. Foster, Mary?” I called out. 

“She went away with a lady, sir,” Mary replied 
with an eagerness in which I read remorse and a 
desire to please. 

Then I remembered. Alice had gone to have that 
portrait painted after all! 

My spirits sank. All my joy in the order for a 
play evaporated. I felt an almost uncontrollable de- 
sire to vent my anger on something or some one. 
But, from the distance, I could feel Mary’s covert 
eye on me, and I recalled what she had said the night 
before. Then I was violently tempted to assail Mary. 
But I could not put her in the right like that, give 
her a chance in her senses to repeat the charges she 
had made in her cups. My anger presently gave way 
to a profound depression in which Lily Valentine’s 
order loomed as a gigantic and hopeless task. I re- 
called what I had forgotten, that long before finish- 
ing the story of Francesca Bayne I had become utterly 
sick of the characters and indifferent to their doings. 
How could I go back to them again, live with them 
from day to day, make them live again, and, above 
all things, make them interesting? Then I walked 
hastily to my desk and closed the door so that Mary 
could not possibly see me. I searched among the 
book-shelves for a copy of Francesca: when I could 


220 


Our Best Society 


not find one I recalled that I had given all my copies 
away, and I reflected bitterly that if I did not stop 
giving autograph copies of my books I should become 
impoverished. I resolved never to give another. If 
my friends did not care enough for my books to buy 
them, then they could go without. And as for those 
people who asked for copies! The thought of them 
sent me weakly back to my desk. For a long time I 
sat there, leaning on my elbow and grieving over my 
fate. Then I began to think of the scenario and of 
all the pleasant things that Letty Henderson and 
Lily Valentine had said about it. I felt myself gradu- 
ally coming out of my torpor. After all, it might not 
be so hard to write a play. For one thing, there 
would be no description of people, or clothes, or 
scenery. Except for the instructions with regard to 
the sets and the stage-business, it would be all dia- 
logue. In my mind I followed the sequence of 
scenes for the first act. My eyes mechanically 
searched for a pencil. Then I seized the sheet of paper 
and began to write. With joy I found myself going 
rapidly on. 

“Well?” 

I looked up, my face hot, my whole body tingling. 
Alice was looking down at me. 

“I’ve been standing here at least five minutes,” 
she said. 

I glanced at the door and seeing that it was closed, 
I drew Alice down and rapturously kissed her. I 
was in one of the rare moods of life, the mood of ex- 
altation, where all the faculties are marvellously 
alive and the greatest of ambitions seem easy to 


Miss Valentine Business-Like 221 


attain. I felt as if my triumph were already won, 
and I wished Alice to have her share in it at once. 

She drew away from me, laughing, and looked with 
satisfaction at the pile of sheets on the desk. “I 
was afraid you were going to scold me,” she said. 

Then, with a pang, I recalled what she had been 
doing ; but somehow it did not seem so bad now. 

“ What happened?” I asked, trying to look more 
severe than I really felt. 

“Mrs. Eustace came at eleven. Then ” 

“Up here?” 

Alice nodded. 

“And she looked over the apartment and said it 
was ‘sweet/ and ‘cosey,’ and ‘cunning,’ of course.” 

“You’re just about as near as you usually get, 
dear Ned.” 

“Well, what did she do?” 

“She said it must be a great relief to live in an 
apartment. She thinks of renting her house and tak- 
ing an apartment herself. You see,” Alice con- 
cluded with a sigh, “she’s rich enough to be able to 
talk poor.” Alice hesitated and I knew she had 
something to tell. “It was really very pleasant,” 
she went on, briskly. “It’s a beautiful studio, a 
great big place way down in the slums and all painters 
in the building. Cosgrave has the most wonderful 
things, tapestries, and brass, and old carvings. 

“Oh, yes, I know those places,” I replied, some- 
what irritably. “All cluttered and dusty. To go 
into them gives me a headache.” 

“It was in perfect order, the whole place,” Alice 
continued, with the air of not hearing me, “He’s 


222 


Our Best Society 


as fussy as an old maid.” Her eyes wandered off 
into the distance. 

“Well?” 

“Something strange happened.” 

I controlled an impulse to smile. 

“Of course, it may not be anything.” Alice drew 
up a chair and faced me. Her manner had become 
very important. “When we got to the studio the 
first thing Mrs. Eustace said was, after we took our 
wraps off: “Oh, I left my necklace here the other 
day.’” 

“What?” I gasped, incredulously. 

Alice rebuked me with a frown. “ He’s been doing 
a portrait of her, too, a full-length. It’s nearly fin- 
ished. It brings out the very worst that’s in her. 
It quite scared me. But never mind about that. He 
said, in the most degage manner: ‘I don’t think you 
could have left it here. I should have seen it, or the 
woman would have found it. It must be in your 
jewel-case at home.’ Then Mrs. Eustace turned 
awfully red and then pale. But the wonderful thing 
was that she did n’t say anything.” 

“M’m!” I murmured, to gain time to think. Then 
I asked: “What did he mean by ‘the woman’?” 

“The woman who has charge of the place, of 
course,” said Alice, quickly, brushing aside my in- 
terruption. “After that Mrs. Eustace became dread- 
fully pleasant. That’s the only way I can describe 
it.” 

“It may have been some cheap thing that she 
wore for the picture. It is n’t at all likely that she’d 
wear a valuable necklace to a studio.” 


Miss Valentine Business-Like 223 


Alice gave me a look that plainly said: “I forgive 
you for spoiling my story and for being so stupid.” 
She waited for a long time. Then she resumed: “I 
looked carefully at the portrait. The necklace was 
made of diamonds. It must be worth a fortune.” 

I rose from my seat. “I think you’d better not 
go on with that portrait,” I remarked with as much 
marital dignity as I could command. 

“But what can I do now?” 

“The easiest thing would be to become suddenly 
ill,” I replied. 

“That is impossible,” said Alice, in a voice indicat- 
ing that something more than honour was in her mind. 
She raised her eyes appealingly and apprehensively. 
“At the studio, Mrs. Eustace asked me to go to the 
Horse Show with her on Monday night. Then I said 
we were half committed to Teddy. And then she 
said she’d arrange it with Teddy and we’d all go 
together.” By this time Alice’s cheeks were flaming. 

“So we’re in for it,” I grimly remarked. 

“You know what a manager she is.” 

During luncheon a clerk called from Miss Valen- 
tine’s attorneys, bearing the promised check and 
contract in duplicate. When I had signed both con- 
tracts and given one of them to the clerk, and Alice 
and I were alone again, we sat and looked at each 
other. 

“Is n’t it wonderful?” Alice whispered. 

I was too moved to speak. 

“Lily Valentine did n’t lose much time, did she?” 
Alice went on, smiling. “Oh, how splendid to be 
able to put things through like that! No wonder 


224 


Our Best Society 


women want to be actresses, or anything in the world, 
rather than stay at home and be nothing.” 

“Here, here!” I said, in absent reproval. I was 
thinking of what I had done. I should have to write 
that play now, and in a month too! I began to 
have a feeling of panic. 

‘‘We can get so many things that we need — clothes 
and ” 

“Wait a minute, Alice,” I said, and my voice 
sounded hoarse. “There is one thing that we must 
do during the next month. Everything else must 
be subordinated to that. We must get that play 
written.” 

Alice looked alarmed. “Why, of course, dear, of 
course,” she replied, in a tone that people employ 
with the dangerous or the insane. 

“No more society! No Horse Show! Nothing!” 

We finished the meal in silence. I went straight 
to my desk and I worked till five o’clock. Then, 
without saying a word to Alice, I went out. It was 
selfish; it was brutal; but I was in the mood in 
which I could not trust myself to speak. When I 
returned, Alice was waiting for me in one of her 
prettiest gowns, and apparently in her most cheerful 
mood. We spent a quiet evening, looking over the 
papers and reading aloud a short story. If any one 
had called I should have been tempted to commit 
murder. The next morning I worked desperately, 
but I did not dare to read over what I had written. 
After luncheon I told Alice that I was going out for 
a long walk and, without comment, she assented. I 
strode up to Fifth Avenue and an impulse led me to 


Miss Valentine Business-Like 225 


go into the Waldorf-Astoria. In the marble corri- 
dor I came face to face with a youth in a long black 
coat, who seized me by the arm. 

“You’re the very man I want to see.” 

To my surprise, it was Teddy Markoe; I had been 
too absorbed in thinking of that infernal play to 
recognise him. 

“Oh, hello!” I said, roughly, I fear. Somehow I 
associated him with my anguish over the play. To 
meet him seemed like recalling some unpleasant 
event from the past. 

“Say — I met Mrs. Eustace at the Hendersons’ last 
night and she said that she and your wife would take 
care of that box-party for the first night of the Horse 
Show. Miss Henderson is going,” he went on eagerly, 
“and I’ve asked them all to dine with me. Mrs. 
Eustace said she’d arrange all the details with Mrs. 
Foster and Letty. So I sha’n’t bother my head 
about it.” 

“Oh, all right. All right,” I said, nodding my 
head in the ridiculous fashion that I have when I ’m 
embarrassed. 

“Come and have a drink!” Teddy exclaimed, ap- 
parently as an afterthought. But I shook my head. 
I could not possibly have listened in patience to 
further confidences. 

“And oh, by the way, Mrs. Eustace and I have 
talked over your coming down to my place — after 
the Horse Show. I think Letty and her mother will 
come too.” 

“Oh, that’s awfully jolly,” I replied, becoming 

affected in my desire to hide from him how I felt. 

15 


226 


Our Best Society 


I was so successful that he seized me by the arm 
and reiterated his invitation to drink. 

“I’d like to first rate,” I said with a powerful ear- 
nestness, “but I have an appointment and I’m late 
already.” 

I walked away from him and hurried to the desk, 
keeping an eye on Teddy as he sped away toward the 
Thirty-fourth Street exit. I passed the desk with 
rapid steps and I bolted for home. After all, that 
seemed the most secure place in my anguish over the 
play. I could have no peace of mind until I im- 
pressed on Alice that, till the play was finished, the 
slightest reference to social festivities would be likely 
to throw me into a fit! But as I approached the 
house the selfishness of this course dawned on me. 
I resolved to let Alice go to the Horse Show alone. 
Why should I let my work interfere with her pleas- 
ure? From the generous thought I derived so much 
solace that, on reaching home, I felt almost serene. 

When I told Alice of my talk with Teddy and of 
my resolve to let her have the evening at the Horse 
Show without me, I had one of the great surprises of 
my life. She listened calmly. Then she said: 

“Of course, my going without you is altogether 
out of the question.” 

“Why?” 

“It would look so bad.” 

“What do I care about looks?” 

“You care a good deal — with other people. It’s 
supposed to be our party — in a sort of way,” Alice 
went on, “though it seems to have been taken out 
of our hands quite effectively. But the fact remains 


Miss Valentine Business-Like 227 


that to go without you would be scandalous. It will 
only be one evening, anyway ; if you keep at the play 
as feverishly as you’ve begun it, you’ll be a wreck 
within a few days. You need distraction now more 
than you ever did.” 

I felt too disappointed to argue. ‘I will go on 
one condition, Alice — that you avoid all mention of 
the evening till it comes.” 

Alice shrugged her shoulders, and the subject 
dropped. Till Monday I worked on the first act, 
finishing it at exactly twenty minutes of three in the 
afternoon. When I threw down my pen, I felt like 
an escaped prisoner. 

“Alice,” I exclaimed, pushing into the dining- 
room, “I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon 
off, and I ’m crazy to go out with you to-night.” 

“I knew you would be, Ned,” she amiably replied. 


CHAPTER XV 


WE ATTEND THE HORSE SHOW 

M Y preparations for the evening kept me so busy 
that, before dinner, I had just time enough to 
glance at the evening paper. This head-line at once 
caught my eye: “Slump in Wall Street !” Other 
lines in big type conveyed that Archibald Drew, the 
stock-broker, who held talks with the public by 
means of the advertising columns of the daily press, 
had published another of his sensational articles. 

“He ought to have been an actor, that man.” 

I looked up, startled. Alice had stolen into the 
room. “Would n’t it be interesting,” I said, “to 
trace out the effect of an article like that ? To show, 
on one side, the people who made money and what 
they did with the money, and, on the other side, 

the people who lost money ” 

“And how they got on without it,” Alice remarked. 
“It would make a great human document.” 

“I hope dear Mr. Henderson has n’t suffered,” said 
Alice, with an absent smile. Then the smile faded 
from her face. “Poor Letty!” 

“ It seems to me she ’s getting in deeper and deeper,” 
I said wamingly. 

Alice had informed me that we were to be “fetched ” 
to the Horse Show in a “vehicle,” but she refused to 
give any details. “You’ve been like one in a trance 
228 


We Attend the Horse Show 229 


during the past week,” she said, “and you don’t de- 
serve to know what has been going on in the world.” 
I had a curious feeling that I had come back from a 
long sleep, and it was refreshing to realise that the 
world continued to run its natural course. The 
truth was that I was ridiculously happy because I 
had finished that act. I kept assuring myself that 
plenty of men, even plenty of men that I myself 
knew, had written, not one play, but several plays, 
and their achievement, far from inspiring them with 
joy, had a rather saddening effect; but the thought 
could not damp my spirits. If one had never written 
a play, one could n’t feel grieved at never having had 
a play produced. 

While Alice was dressing, I returned to the news- 
paper and I read the account of the “slump” in 
stocks. It had been almost unprecedented and the 
losses had been alarming. The article set my mind 
speculating. What a chance for a novel or a play! 
It ought to abound in dramatic situations and to 
give fine chances for characterisation, developed 
wholly by action. As soon as Alice entered the room 
I started to tell her of my inspiration. 

“Have you lost your eyesight?” 

Then I saw that Alice was wearing a marvellously 
simple and well-fitting and beautiful white frock. 

For a long time I looked at her. Then I said: 

“ Is it all gone?” 

On Alice’s face appeared an expression of alarm. 
“What?” she gasped, bewildered, as if I had lost my 
mind. 

“The five hundred.” 


230 


Our Best Society 


“Oh!” She turned so that I might survey the 
hang of the skirt. “Isn’t it a triumph?” she said. 
Then she went on, as if referring to a most trifling 
matter : 

“Letty took me to her mother’s man. He’s won- 
derful and awfully cheap.” 

1 could n’t help laughing. 

“Now be nice, Ned.” 

So I held out my arms and I was as nice as I knew 
how to be. 

Alice kept turning to the window and trying to 
look down into the street. At eight o’clock her 
sharp ears detected a rumbling from the depths be- 
low. “Let’s go,” she said nervously, and before we 
reached the hall, our bell rang. I followed her down 
the stairs. 

“We’re to ride in one of those omnibus things,” 
Alice whispered breathlessly. “It ’s Teddy’s idea. 
He thought it might be convenient for all of us, and 
Letty was nearly frightened to death for fear she 
might have to ride alone with him in a coupe.” 

It occurred to me that Alice might have men- 
tioned this detail before; but I have observed that, 
occasionally, women consider detail antipathetic to 
men. 

I confess that I did not know quite what Alice meant 
by “those omnibus things,” and I was astonished to 
see a great shining coach standing at the door. I 
had seen that kind of vehicle before, but somehow, I 
had always associated it with hotels. As the door 
was opened before us, we were greeted with cries 
from Letty Henderson and from Mrs. Eustace and 


We Attend the Horse Show 231 


from Letty’s mother, which Alice caught up and re- 
sponded to with gay laughter. Monty, who sat near 
the door, contributed to the chorus with his effemin- 
ate little cackle. 

In the exchange of questions between the ladies 
that followed our entrance, I heard Alice say to Mrs. 
Henderson: “But isn’t Mr. Henderson coming?’’ 

“Later, my dear,’’ Mrs. Henderson replied, and 
over the rattle of the omnibus on the rough pave- 
ment, her sweet voice piped: “He’s been having a 
dreadful time in Wall Street to-day, poor man.’’ 

I don’t know whether the panes of glass had been 
loosely fitted to that vehicle or whether my ears were 
peculiarly alert; but we rattled fiercely all the way 
to the Madison Avenue asphalt. And then, in a 
moment or two, we were in the blaze of the lights 
from the Madison Square Garden. The Avenue and 
the side streets skirting the Garden were packed with 
carriages and with people. For a long time we stood 
motionless in the crush ; then, at intervals, we would 
move slowly forward. 

“Well, New York has one good thing anyway,” 
Cosgrave grudgingly remarked, looking out on the 
portico of the Garden. “It’s a wonder the New 
Yorkers have sense enough to appreciate this place. 
I thought they would tear it down and put up an 
office building here long ago.” 

“It must be a frightful expense,” Mrs. Eustace 
cried, rather unhappily, from her point of view, I 
thought. “I don’t see how it can possibly pay.” 

Cosgrave smiled wearily and lapsed from the 
discussion. 


232 


Our Best Society 


“It’s only good for enormous shows like this and 
for big political meetings,” Mrs. Eustace went on with 
some spirit. 

“Don’t forget the French Ball,” said Monty. 
“Say,” he exclaimed, leaning toward me, “have you 
ever been to the French Ball? It’s great. You 
ought to write it up.” 

“You silly boy, he doesn’t write for the Police 
Gazette ,” said Mrs. Eustace. 

“Well, it’s the place to see life,” Monty insisted, 
and we all rebuked him with silence. 

It must have been later than half -past eight when 
we succedeed in reaching the entrance to the Garden 
and making a landing. We were at once caught in 
the crowd and borne into the broad entrance and up 
the incline. I had a confused vision of dazzling 
opera-cloaks and bobbing crush hats. In spite of the 
discomfort, no one seemed ill-humoured. “At all 
costs we must keep together,” cried the masterful Mrs. 
Eustace, and we manoeuvred to maintain the integ- 
rity of our group. Even when we reached the vast 
Garden we enjoyed only a mild relief, for the cir- 
cuitous walk was made difficult of passage by the 
multitude. But oh! what a sight it was! Every- 
one well dressed, everyone radiant, beautiful women 
on all sides, and the band playing a Strauss 
waltz ! 

When we reached Teddy’s box, Mrs. Eustace 
voiced our sensations: “ I feel as if I had n’t a rag 
left on my back!” 

When the ladies had removed their wraps, I under- 
stood why Alice had determined to have a new 


We Attend the Horse Show 233 


gown. Even to my masculine eye it was plain that 
newness was stamped on every gown in the box. 
Mrs. Henderson wore a wonderful creation that 
might have been designed for a girl making her 
first appearance in society; beside it, her daughter’s 
charming frock of pale blue seemed almost matronly. 
Mrs. Eustace shimmered in one of those indescribable 
black gowns with jet or something all over them that 
give even to the matronly wearer a kind of snake- 
like slimness. 

“Oh, my dear, why didn’t you wear your dia- 
monds!’’ exclaimed Mrs. Henderson, in generous 
reproach. “That frock would have set them off 
marvellously.’’ 

“I’m tired of those diamonds,’’ Mrs. Eustace petu- 
lantly replied. “They’re overworked. I’ve been 
wearing them at the opera for nearly ten seasons.’’ 

Again I had a creepy feeling and I knew that Alice 
was gazing into the ring in order to avoid my eye. 
Cosgrave, standing at the back of the box, was pull- 
ing at his moustache and looking large and handsome 
and important. 

Already the performance had begun and a beauti- 
ful chestnut cob was prancing in the ring. Not one 
of our party, with the exception of Teddy, however, 
displayed the slightest interest in the ring: they 
were absorbed in watching the other spectators. 

“Would n’t it be nice,’’ Mrs. Henderson whispered 
to me, with a smile of humorous appreciation for 
which I should hardly have given her credit, “if we 
could have the Horse Show without any horses?” 

“That’s the way I feel about the Opera,” Mrs. 


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Eustace returned. “I often think that Wagner was 
sent into the world to punish us for our vanity.” 

“But after a little practice it becomes easy to dis- 
tract one’s mind,” said Mrs. Henderson, pressing her 
pearl-handled lorgnette against her eyes. 

“ I find it a great help, knowing the singers.” Mrs. 
Eustace was still studying the box-people. “Since 
Madame Nordica and I became friends, I ’ve actually 
been interested in Tristan and Isolde — parts of it. 
She has made me realise what hard work it is. There ’s 
Dick Ferris,” she continued, in the same level voice, 
“advertising himself, as usual.” 

“In Mrs. Goddard’s box!” cried Mrs. Henderson, 
in an awe-stricken whisper. “How in the world 
did he ?” 

“Oh, he amuses her. She thinks his brogue is so 
quaint.” 

“How pretty Mrs. Silsbee looks!” Letty Hender- 
son exclaimed. 

“Where?” said Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Eustace 
at the same moment. 

“To the left of the Goddards — three boxes away.” 

“Oh, with the tiara,” said her mother, with relief 
in her voice. “How she does keep her looks!” she 
added enviously. 

“They say she starves herself to death.” — Mrs. 
Eustace was still searching. “Whenever she goes 
out to dinner she carries a loaf of gluten bread with 
her. Oh, well, she’s welcome to all that brute, Sils- 
bee, gives her. But I don’t care for the tiara- 
boom-de-ay style of beauty myself. Heavens! ” Mrs. 
Eustace lowered her lorgnette, inspected it as if doubt- 


We Attend the Horse Show 235 


in g its veracity, and pressed it against her eyes again. 
“It is! Well, upon my word! What brass!” 

She leaned forward to whisper in Mrs. Henderson’s 
ear. Then she added in an audible voice: “It’s 
been going on since last summer.” 

Mrs. Henderson agitatedly resorted to her lorg- 
nette again, following the direction of Mrs. Eustace’s 
gaze. “She looks perfectly brazen, does n’t she?” 

“They say he’s determined to marry her,” Mrs. 
Eustace explained in a voice of injury. “Think of 
it! She went to his mother and asked her what his 
prospects were.” 

“Confinement in jail if he keeps on,” Mrs. Hender- 
son ruthlessly prophesied. 

“For once the old lady showed a little grit. ‘His 
prospects, so far as I am concerned,’ she said, ‘are 
the door,’ and she waved her hand and told the but- 
ler to show her out. Fortunately the butler was 
about six feet tall and my lady marched into the 
street as meek as Moses.” 

Mrs. Henderson pursed her lips. “She’ll never 
marry him,” she said, shaking her head with decision. 

Alice and Letty Henderson were trying, I observed, 
to pay some attention to the horses. 

Meanwhile, I had heard enough of the talk to try 
to divert my mind from it. A thin little man was 
exciting mirth by his appearance on a magnificent 
black hunter and winning admiration for his riding. 
It was thrilling to see the hunter step with rhythmic 
majesty over the sawdust ring. Teddy’s eyes were 
shining with pleasure. 

“Well, Billy Wain wright can give the rest of us 


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cards and spades,” he said. “He breeds his horses 
at his stock-farm in Kentucky, and I believe there 
is n’t a good horse in the State that he does n’t know. 
Anyway, he always gets the first pick.” 

“Why are n’t you in the ring?” Letty asked. 

“Oh, I’ve got tired of making a spectacle of my- 
self,” he replied with a laugh. “I’m willing to let 
the horses have the glory.” 

Mrs. Eustace and Mrs. Henderson, who had been 
talking across the box, drew their seats together, 
Cosgrave took a place behind Mrs. Eustace’s chair, 
and Monty drifted away to talk with some friends in 
a neighbouring box. So Alice and Letty and I were 
able to listen to Teddy. Under the inspiration of the 
display of horse-flesh, Teddy became like another 
man. His face, dull in repose and often surly, grew 
radiant with enthusiasm. In every contest he knew 
which horse would be the winner and, more marvel- 
lous still, seemed to know the history, not only of the 
owner, but of the horse as well. It grew to be a joke 
to see the horse that he praised summoned to the 
judge’s stand and go prancing around the ring decor- 
ated with the blue ribbon. And yet, there was 
nothing authoritative or conceited in what he said 
or in his manner ; he simply spoke out of a mind full 
of knowledge of horses. I admired and envied him, 
and I was amused to note a look in Letty’s face that 
suggested a tender pride in him. I could not decide 
whether his perceptions, so sharp in some directions, 
so blunt in others, gave him encouragement ; but he 
certainly appeared to greater advantage than he had 
ever done in my presence. 


We Attend the Horse Show 237 


During the first interval, when the horses ceased 
to distract the people from one another, and the 
spirit of curiosity led even the be-diamonded box- 
occupants to desert their perches and to join in the 
grand parade, Teddy’s light was dimmed and he fell 
into silence and surliness again. But the two older 
women took on new vivacity. 

“Shall we go down?” said Mrs. Eustace. 

Mrs. Henderson shivered. “Into that awful 
crowd? Suppose we let people come to us. Be- 
sides, my husband may turn up at any moment.’’ 

Mrs. Eustace looked amused. “ Husbands can usu- 
ally take care of themselves, I ’ve noticed — especially 
in a place like this. Oh, hello!” — Mrs. Eustace 
leaned back and gave her hand to some one who had 
just entered the box. I looked around and saw a 
little red -faced man, with white hair and sparkling 
blue eyes. 

“I’ve been trying to get a bow from you all the 
evening,” he said, with an insinuating manner and a 
faint brogue. 

He leaned forward and pressed Mrs. Eustace’s 
hand. “And how do you do, Mrs. Henderson?” he 
went on with affectionate earnestness. “And Letty, 
my dear. Don’t get up, dearie, and hello, Monty. 
Teddy, why didn’t you show Blue Bell? I was 
that disappointed I almost cried. Sure, there was n’t 
a hunter in the ring to-night that could compare with 
Blue Bell!” 

I actually thought that he was going to kiss Letty, 
and was surprised by the evident joy that his appear- 
ance gave her, He turned to Alice, with a smile that 


238 Our Best Society 

seemed to say, “I don’t remember you exactly; but 
I like you.” 

Mrs. Eustace spoke the words of introduction, and 
at the mention of his name I grew more interested. 
So this was the celebrated Dick Ferris. “Now is n’t 
that strange?” he said with his pleasant musical 
cadence and speaking like a kindly old priest. “I 
knew I’d seen you somewhere before, Mrs. Foster! 
Now was it at the Goddards’? Well, if it was n’t at 
the Goddards’, ’t was at the Macys’? Well, now 
is n’t that strange?” 

He sat in the middle of the box and babbled on, 
ignoring Cosgrave. At first, I assumed that he had 
not noticed the painter; then I began to suspect 
that the slight was deliberate. “Well, now, a night 
like this makes me feel ten years younger. If I can 
only pull off a blue ribbon for one of my Mexican 
ponies this week, I’ll be the happiest man in New 
York.” 

On Teddy’s glum face there appeared a glimmer of 
light. “So you’re going to get up against Billy 
Raynor, are you?” 

“Oh, I suppose he’ll take everything in sight!” 
Ferris lamented. “Isn’t it awful, the way those 
fellers come over from Boston and put us to shame? 
There ain’t any good horses in New York any more. 
Archie Drew will get the blue ribbon for the tandem, 
of course. By the way,” he went on, his brogue 
gaining in richness as he grew more confidential, “if 
you could have heard old Goddard talk about Archie 
Drew to-night! You know Archie has been making 
war on his stocks, an’ to-day he came out with a 


We Attend the Horse Show 239 


fierce one an’ they say the old man dropped nearly 
a million. But he’s here to-night all the same an’ 
he says he’ll get back at Drew if it breaks him. 
There he is now. Will you look? Right over 
there, near the Judge’s stand, with the crowd around 
him.” 

“Who?” Mrs. Eustace cried, following his look. 

“Archie Drew himself. My, but he’s the brave 
man to come here among these millionaires! If they 
weren’t such a disorganised lot, I believe they’d 
lynch him. There’s not one among ’m that has n’t 
lost through him to-day.” 

I looked, too, for I cared more about getting a 
glimpse of Archibald Drew than the President of the 
United States. I expected to see a brutal-looking 
man with a thick-set figure, a powerful jaw, and 
piercing eyes; but instead I saw a man of medium 
height, slightly built, with delicate features, light 
brown hair and moustache, and with a humorous ex- 
pression playing over his face. He seemed the per- 
sonification of mildness. 

“What do you think of him, Dick?” said Mrs. 
Eustace. 

“Think of him!” Ferris exclaimed. “Sure, I 
think he’s a wonderful man. But don’t tell the 
Goddards I said so. They talk about him as if he 
was the Fiend Incarnate.” 

“He’s a good sport,” said Teddy approvingly. “I 
don’t know how he makes his money ; but he knows 
how to spend it.” 

“That’s everything, my boy,” said Ferris, giving 
Teddy a little push. 


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“Yes, it does n’t make any difference how you get 
it,” said Mrs. Henderson, rather bitterly. 

“An’ now, my dears, I must go,” said Ferris, rising 
quickly. “I’ll see you again,” he added, and away 
he darted, including us all, even Cosgrave, in the 
benediction of his smile. 

“ From flower to flower,” said Mrs. Eustace. “ Dick 
does n’t purpose to let any one forget him.” 

“To think that he came to this country a poor 
Irish immigrant, hardly able to read!” Mrs. Eustace 
confided to me. “He’s made millions in some sort 
of business — I don’t know just what it is — something 
ill-smelling.” 

“And he’s ridden into society,” Mrs. Henderson 
added, “behind a pack of hounds.” 

“Oh, that’s what the papers are always saying!” 
Mrs. Eustace exclaimed. “I’m glad he is in society 
because he ’s so different from other people, and 
that’s a blessed relief.” 

“I thought he bought his way in by establishing a 
free lunch at the Waldorf-Astoria,” said Cosgrave 
loftily. 

Mrs. Eustace laughed. “ Well, he is always hang- 
ing around the place, that’s true, and it’s a great 
convenience when you’re alone to meet him there. 
He has a positive genius for thinking up the most 
gorgeous luncheons on the spur of the moment. The 
only trouble is, you never can be sure what you’ll 
encounter at his table. He has a way of bringing a 
lot of people together from all quarters of the hotel. 
Still,” Mrs. Eustace concluded philosophically, “as I 
grow old, I grow more liberal. I used to think that 


We Attend the Horse Show 241 


society ought to be exclusive. Now I want it to in- 
clude everybody that ’s amusing. All I ask is — keep 
the bores out. Of course, Dick Ferris is an awful 
climber and you can’t snub him — you positively 
can’t. But there’s something lovable about the dear 
old thing.” 

“His money,” said Cosgrave in a low voice of 
assent. 

“No, his blarney,” said Mrs. Henderson, with a 
little titter. 

Most of the promenaders had gone back to their 
seats, and the horses had a chance again. The next 
event was the tandem-driving, and the celebrated 
Archibald Drew created a sensation by appearing in 
the ring with his horses. Whatever may have been 
the sentiments of the millionaires at the sight he 
presented, that part of the attendance which did not 
consist of millionaires received him with rapturous 
applause. He looked exceedingly handsome as he 
sat on his high seat and deftly guided his horses 
around the ring, and in his bearing I fancied that I 
could get suggestions of his mastery. When he rode 
up to receive the blue ribbon, his face wore a smile 
of benevolent amusement. It was plainly the smile 
of one used to success. 

At the very moment when Drew was receiving the 
blue ribbon, Henderson entered the box. His face 
was as white as the waistcoat that he wore. He 
merely nodded to us and he fixed his eyes on the 
financier-sportsman. And then, as Drew drove tri- 
umphantly around the ring, laughing with good 
humour in response to the applause, I heard Hender- 

16 


242 


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son, who was standing beside me, mutter words so 
awful that the memory of them still bums in my 
mind. 

“What a chance to shoot him! ” he remarked aloud, 
between his teeth. “I’d like to have a try at him 
myself.” 

“Why, you look as if you’d come straight out 
of a sick-bed!” exclaimed Mrs. Eustace. 

Henderson drew a long breath. “It’s been a 
hard day for me,” he said, and I felt a rush of sym- 
pathy toward him. In his agitation, the affected, 
insincere hero had disappeared, leaving the man, — 
not much of a man, perhaps, but real. 

His wife gave him a quick, keen look. Long used 
to his faking, she was plainly disturbed by his sin- 
cerity. 

“Do you think you ought to stay, dear?” she 
said, and there was a touch of tenderness in her 
voice. 

“Oh, I’m all right.” He immediately braced up 
and became grand again. It was curious to see him 
in process of inflation. A little colour appeared in 
his face; he made comments on the horses designed 
to show his knowledge of horse flesh and plainly 
causing Teddy some irritation. Twice Teddy started 
to correct him and then checked himself. 


CHAPTER XVI 


TEDDY PLAYS THE HOST 


S the evening waned, the boxes began to thin out. 



i\ It was plain that society was glutted with dis- 
playing itself, and had already begun to tire of the 
poor horses. The promenaders, however, seemed to 
retain their numbers ; among them I began to recog- 
nise the smooth, lined, and alert faces of actors then 
playing in New York. Already they had finished 
their nightly duties. Presently, I saw some one in 
the crowd waving a white-gloved hand toward our 
box, and I recognised Lily Valentine. Beside her 
walked that joker, her manager, the irrepressible 
Holbrook. Lily Valentine, I perceived, was causing 
a sensation, both in the promenade and among 
the people in the boxes. It was strange, I reflected, 
the way she had impressed the imagination of the 
theatre-going public. Even here, in this galaxy of 
celebrities, she stood out. She was almost as great 
a sensation as Archibald Drew. And yet, she was 
not really beautiful, as I could easily perceive from 
my point of vantage, and she was carelessly dressed. 

As I turned away, Mrs. Eustace exclaimed, “There! 
didn’t I tell you?” and, on looking again, I saw 
Dick Ferris fondling Lily’s hand and leaning toward 
her with tender solicitude. “Now he’ll go parading 


243 


244 Our Best Society 

around with her and get the best advertisement he’s 
had to-night.” 

Letty Henderson had begun to show signs of 
fatigue and nervousness. On an inspiration I asked 
her if she would n’t join in the parade for a little 
while with Alice and me. She accepted with an 
eagerness that made me suspect she had been long- 
ing to escape. I feared that Teddy would offer to 
accompany us, and I was relieved when he said: 
“Back soon?” 

“In five minutes,” I cheerfully replied, and down 
the rough board steps we went. 

“Oh!” Letty said in a long sigh of relief, “I hope 
you don’t mind going about in this awful throng. 
If I could only — only get a little air.” 

We assured her that we did n’t mind and that 
fresh air was easily obtained even in New York. 
We made our way out to Madison Avenue and we 
stood on the sidewalk. 

“I know I’m silly,” Letty said, “but I felt that if 
I stayed in that place just a few minutes longer some- 
thing dreadful would surely happen to me.” 

“You were a little faint, dear,” said Alice. 

“Perhaps so.” The girl appealed to me. “Do 
you ever have those presentiments? Do you ever 
feel that a certain day or a certain time may be — oh, 
it may be terribly important for you? It may be 
what they call a turning-point or something like that 
— only worse, worse than a turning-point. That 
usually means relief, does n’t it, change for the bet- 
ter ? ,J She clasped her hands and looked at us 
feverishly. 


Teddy Plays the Host 


245 


“I’ve had those experiences,” Alice promptly in- 
terposed, “and they’ve always come when I’ve not 
been feeling well, and they never, never turn out to 
be true,” she concluded, laughing. 

“I’ve been trying so hard lately not to let myself 
feel like that, and — and I thought I was growing ever 
so much more sensible. But I don’t know. You 
see, father’s coming home in such a state. I have 
never seen him as he was to-night. He usually tries 
to be cheerful. But he said — he said he had lost 
everything.” 

“Lost everything?” Alice repeated with dismay. 
If I was less dismayed, it was because I supposed 
that Henderson did not have much to lose. 

“On account of what happened to-day in Wall 
Street. It has all made me quite wretched. And 
then, seeing that man, that Mr. Drew, — I don’t know 
that he was wrong to do what he did. Perhaps he 
had to. It’s so hard to understand. I only know 
what it means to us, and especially what it means to 
me.” 

“I think we’d better go back now, dear,” said 
Alice. “You ought to be at home.” 

“But I’m ever so much better,” said the girl, try- 
ing to smile, “and I’d rather not have you say to 
mamma that I’m not well. Only, please stay near 
me, won’t you? ” 

Alice promised and when we went back, Mrs. 
Eustace, by chance, made one of her good-humoured 
remarks that put us at our ease. A few moments 
later Lily Valentine appeared, followed by Holbrook 
and Dick Ferris. 


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“You did n’t invite me to come to your box,” she 
said reproachfully to Teddy, “but here I am just the 
same.” 

“The Queen is welcome anywhere,” said Cosgrave 
with mock solemnity. 

“ Now I have a scheme, ” said Teddy, raising his voice 
over the chattering of the women. “ You are all to 
come to the Show on Saturday night and then, after- 
ward, you are to come down to my place at Belfont.” 

“Little me, too?” said Lily Valentine. 

“Everybody!” cried Teddy. 

“But how in the world are we going to get there 
at that time of night?” the actress insisted. 

“Special train. Send your luggage ahead or bring 
it along with you, as you please.” 

“ Oh, these millionaires ! ” Miss Valentine glanced 
at Holbrook. “They’re even more wonderful than 
theatrical managers. Why don’t you have special 
trains for me, Mr. Manager?” 

Holbrook laughed as if she had made a marvellous 
joke. “You don’t want me, do you?” he said to 
Teddy. 

“Well, I guess I do,” Teddy insisted, and from his 
manner I saw that the two were friends. 

I was tempted to assert my courage and to declare 
on the spot that I could not go to the place; but I 
dared not make myself conspicuous. Besides, I 
caught an appealing look sent from Letty Hender- 
son’s eyes to Alice. But, good heavens! how could 
we stand between that girl and her fate? It was as 
plain as daylight that a perfect understanding already 
existed between Mrs. Henderson and Teddy. 


Teddy Plays the Host 


247 


“Well, now, my dears,” Dick Ferris spoke up in 
his soft brogue, which I was beginning to find quite 
lovable, “suppose we all go and have a little bite at 
the Waldorf-Astoria.” 

“I’ve arranged for all that,” said Teddy, with his 
rough directness. “You come along with us, if you 
like.” 

“No Waldorf-Astoria for me,” Lily Valentine ex- 
claimed decisively, and she prepared to leave the box. 
Though the show had not finished, a thin stream of 
people was pouring out of the vast amphitheatre. 
“Mr. Manager, you must take me home.” 

I dreaded the ordeal of that supper; but once in 
the cold air and in the omnibus, I discovered that I 
had an appetite. Monty, who had kept flitting in 
and out of the box, devoted himself to Alice, and I 
had a chance to talk with Letty Henderson. 

“Hasn’t it really been a nice evening?” she said, 
as if to make up for her temporary weakness. “Do 
you know,” she went on, with a sudden change of 
tone, “I believe there is just one way of having a 
good time and that is by making yourself have it.” 

Those words inspired me with a kind of hectic 
determination, and during the supper that Teddy had 
ordered for us at the hotel, I believe I talked more 
than any one else — except Dick Ferris, who talked 
all the time. That whiff of cold air had given me a 
second wind. Other people from the Horse Show 
nearly filled the place. Somehow the overdressing of 
the women and the atmosphere of wanton luxury did 
not distress me. The interest of the evening rather 
thrilled my literary sense. I felt somehow that I 


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was living in the material of good fiction. I had a 
sense of friendly gratitude toward the people who 
had made the spectacle so entertaining to me — 
especially toward Archibald Drew, whose manipula- 
tions in one day had created so many splendid stories, 
in which joy and sorrow made beautifully contrasting 
effects. 

But the next day I paid dear for my recreation. 
I found that I had lost my grip on the play. I could 
not write; I could not even think. My mind abso- 
lutely refused to notice such a thing as a second act. 
I complained to Alice and she said, laconically, “Take 
a rest.” On the second day, my mind grew some- 
what more limber; but I could not write a line of 
satisfactory dialogue. I began to fear that I should 
never be able to write again. I saw poverty con- 
fronting me as a result of my social dissipations. And 
then, on the third day, I grew so desperate that I 
forced myself to work, and for several hours I wrote 
furiously. By Friday night I had completed the act. 

“Take the sheets,” I said to Alice, with supersti- 
tious fear. “Don’t let me see them till they’re all 
copied. I feel as if I had been run through a wringer.” 

“The trip down to Teddy’s place will do you 
good,” said Alice. 

“Oh!” I exclaimed, remembering. 

“You know you’re crazy to go. Think of seeing 
that fine old country house with the big open-grate 
fires. And then the stock farm, the horses ” 

“Here, here!” I cried. “Bridle that imagination.” 
Then I reflected for a few moments. “ It’s ridiculous 
— our going there in the middle of the night.” 


Teddy Plays the Host 


2 49 


“That’s what I like about it — the adventure.” 

“Yes, and the loss of sleep.” 

“We’ll make it up the next morning.” 

“How about the luggage?” 

“I’ve arranged all that. Letty’s going to send 
down here for our trunk.” 

“Trunk!” I gasped. “How long are we to be 
there?” 

“Over the week-end.” 

“How many rigs are you taking?” 

“Three gowns.” 

“Besides the one you’ll wear at the Horse Show?” 

Alice nodded. 

“Of course, it’s no use to complain,” I said, turn- 
ing away. 

“Especially when there’s nothing to complain 
about,” Alice added, laughing. 

The next day, though I had intended to loaf, I was 
seized with a powerful desire to revise those two 
acts, and I worked on them all day long. By five 
o’clock I was so tired that to go to that Horse Show 
again seemed like a labour of Hercules. 

“ We ’ll go late, Ned,” said Alice to comfort me. 
“I wrote to Letty not to let any one call for us, and 
she sent me word to-day that we’d find our tickets 
at the box-office. I believe Teddy is dining at Letty’s 
to-night. After dinner you can lie down for a 
while.” 

“So the affair marches?” 

“What affair?” 

“Those two. I know we are all asked down there 
so that he can get a chance to propose to her,” 


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Alice did not reply and I grudgingly made prepara- 
tions for the evening. Without saying a word to me, 
Alice had sent my things with hers to Teddy’s place, 
and I could not help reflecting that she was the 
greatest comfort a man could have, and that the 
least I could do in return was to make her life as 
bright as possible. After all, it was hard for a woman 
to be married to a literary man. At times it seemed 
hard to me for a woman to be married to any man. 

We walked to the Madison Square Garden and 
arrived so late that we had no difficulty in making 
our way up the entrance. I was astonished to find 
apparently the same vast crowd of people there that I 
had seen nearly a week before. 

We found Teddy’s box filled with guests that had 
made up our previous party, excepting Monty, whom 
we discovered in the distance with the Goddards. It 
took me a long time to get into the spirit of the Show 
again. Somehow it seemed stale and I longed for it 
to end. Blue ribbon after blue ribbon was won 
without giving me a thrill. I wondered if I were 
growing old. 

It had been arranged that we were to go to the 
Long Island Ferry at Thirty-fourth Street in auto- 
mobiles. Lily Valentine arrived late, with Holbrook, 
saying that she had been detained at the theatre, 
and we had what seemed at one time to be a hopeless 
confusion in getting all the people together and in 
dividing them into groups for transportation. Fi- 
nally, we reached the ferry and we stood out on the 
deck in the clear, cold night, bright with a moon and 
with millions of stars. The company had provided 


Teddy Plays the Host 


25 1 


Teddy with a beautiful new car and, as soon as we 
started, waiters appeared with champagne and sand- 
wiches. We were warned not to eat much, as a hot 
supper was waiting for us ; but we paid no heed, for 
the sandwiches of caviar were exceedingly appetising. 
Every one appeared to be in high good humour, even 
Cosgrave, who unbent from his dignity, and indulged 
in somewhat extravagant horseplay. The train went 
like fury, and it seemed hardly more than a few min- 
utes after we started when we arrived at Kinglake, 
from which point we were to ride in automobiles to 
Teddy’s place in Belfont. 

As we walked across the platform of the little sta- 
tion to the machines puffing in the road, Miss Valen- 
tine whispered to me : “ Automobiles to burn ! Don’t 
you wish that you were a stock-broker or the son of a 
stock-broker, instead of a writer?” 

We lost little time in jumping into the vehicles, 
and we fairly tore over the road. In about five 
minutes we were entering what looked like a mag- 
nificent park, and we wound along a road lined with 
stately trees, with the moonlight shimmering through 
the bare branches. Then there suddenly came into 
view a large Colonial house with a wide porch, across 
which the light from the open front door was pouring. 
Two servants, who had evidently heard us coming, 
were waiting on the steps. 

“This is the place I have dreamed of all my life! ” 
I heard Lily Valentine’s voice exclaiming from one of 
the automobiles. 

The ladies ran quickly up the steps and into the 
broad hall. The rest of us followed, and, dropping 


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our coats, we turned to a big room at the left, running 
apparently along the whole length of the house, with 
a big brick fireplace at the end. 

It was roughly finished, but it had been decorated 
and furnished by some one who had a fine eye for the 
picturesque, with heavy old tables and chairs, and 
with antlers, and bows and arrows, and rifles and 
sabres ornamenting the walls. Here and there, too, 
I noticed little mounds of pipes — many kinds of pipes. 
And in little nooks I was astonished to observe books, 
most of them, as my eye speedily detected, books of a 
sporting character. 

“What a nice, ‘manny’ place!” said Lily Valen- 
tine, turning to our host. “ No wonder you like being 
a bachelor. ” 

“I don’t like it!” Teddy retorted. 

Miss Valentine sank into one of the big chairs and 
drew her arms together in an ecstasy of content. 
“Then you don’t deserve to remain one. You don’t 
know when you’re well off!” 

Supper was shortly announced and, in spite of 
those sandwiches, we all went clamorously out into 
the dining-room, where we found waiting for us a 
beautifully decorated table, shining with candles, and 
with an open soup-tureen steaming in the centre. 
The supper proved to be really a dinner, and an 
elaborate dinner at that. We had more champagne 
and then a great deal of gaiety, in which Henderson 
and Cosgrave and Dick Ferris vied with one another. 
Mrs. Eustace led all the other women in the abandon- 
ment of her spirits; as the meal proceeded she grew 
more excited and vociferous. With Ferris she con- 


Teddy Plays the Host 


253 


ducted a mock flirtation, for the purpose, I suspected, 
of annoying Cosgrave, who, however, seemed to take 
it in very good part. I saw Alice glance at her from 
time to time with a covert and reproving eye. When 
we reached coffee, cigarettes and cigars were passed 
around, and the room was soon clouded with smoke. 
Suddenly Teddy startled us all by crying out: 

“What do you people say to an automobile ride? 
There's no speed-limit at this time of night.” 


CHAPTER XVII 

A LIVELY HOUSE PARTY 

M RS. EUSTACE was the first to dart out of the 
room. “I must get my furs,” she exclaimed. 
“I don’t propose to freeze to death.” 

Away she went up the stairs, accompanied by a 
maid who had been lingering in the hall. Mrs. Hen- 
derson, looking at least ten years younger than she 
had appeared in her own house, followed, laughing 
immoderately and leading Letty by the hand. To 
my astonishment, I noticed that Letty appeared to 
enter into the spirit of the adventure. 

“I suppose we must go,” Alice remarked to me in 
the hall, and Lily Valentine, coming up at the mo- 
ment, whispered, “Weren’t they idiots? If actors 
behaved in this way on the road, they’d be arrested.” 

Holbrook, separated from the actress during the 
supper, had been in eclipse; but now he reassumed 
his radiance. “You’ll have to sleep all day to- 
morrow, Lily,” he said. 

I was impressed by the instinctive way in which 
we had formed our little group. While we were lin- 
gering, the others were eagerly putting on their heavy 
outer garments. 

“Say, you people aren’t going to back out, are 


254 


2 55 


A Lively House Party 

you?” Monty called to us, and without answering in 
words we reluctantly prepared for the ride. 

Suddenly Mrs. Eustace’s voice sounded from the 
head of the stairs. “I dare everybody to slide down 
the baluster.” 

She looked very handsome and reckless as she 
stood up there, arrayed from head to foot in furs. In 
a flash the irrepressible little Monty was at her side. 
“Here goes!” he cried, and down he slid, touching 
the ground with his toes and giggling to the top of 
his voice. Mrs. Eustace followed, screaming, her 
arms extended and her hair flying about her fur cap. 
She landed with a force that threw her straight into 
Cosgrave’s arms. He gave her a little squeeze, and 
as she pushed him back she said: “Why don’t you 
take the dare? Let’s see if you have any sand.” 

At that moment, Lily Valentine, Holbrook, and 
Ferris were fired with emulation. Up the stairs they 
scrambled. At sight of them, Cosgrave followed, and 
an excited discussion took place as to which should 
go first. Finally, at sight of Mrs. Henderson and 
Letty approaching, Dick Ferris insisted that preced- 
ence should be given them; but Mrs. Henderson 
shuddered at the proposal, and as Letty gently de- 
murred, Lily Valentine darted forward and came 
down in a whirl of applause. Holbrook followed so 
quickly that he nearly knocked the girl off her feet. 

“O scare-cat!” Mrs. Eustace called up to Cosgrave, 
who stood hesitating on the landing, with what 
seemed to me a rather pale face and angry eyes. At 
the words he started forward and began the descent, 
not deftly like the others, but uncertainly, dizzily. 


256 


Our Best Society 


When he had arrived half-way down he suddenly 
lurched to one side, made a somersault clear over the 
baluster, and fell heavily on the hall floor. 

For a moment we were alarmed; but Cosgrave, 
red in the face, quickly picked himself up. Mrs. 
Eustace, who was bubbling with laughter, seized Dick 
Ferris by the arm, and the two rushed out on the 
porch. She seemed to be trying to emphasise her 
delight over Cosgrave’s discomfiture. 

“It’s too wicked to keep the poor chauffeurs up so 
late!” cried Mrs. Henderson, as she made her way 
out on the porch. 

“Well, there’s no need of them anyway.” Teddy 
fixed his eyes on the three fierce lights that were 
coming up the path. The big automobiles, as they 
stood inside the portico, looked like enormous illum- 
inated beetles. 

“Will there be room for us all?” Mrs. Eustace ner- 
vously gasped. Then, without waiting for a reply, 
she turned and said in a low voice: “Oh, bother the 
old chauffeurs. They’ll only be in the way. You 
can manage one of those machines, can’t you, Dick?” 
She spoke with a feverish authority, and I noticed 
that she kept her eyes away from Cosgrave’s face. 

It was quickly arranged that Ferris, Holbrook, and 
Teddy were to run the machines, and, without cere- 
mony or even the pretence of order, we climbed into 
the seats. Alice and I kept together, and it was a 
great relief to me to find her sitting beside me. In 
front sat Dick Ferris with Mrs. Eustace; I was 
amused to note that Alice and I were not the only 
alert ones. In the automobile that faced us we saw 


2 57 


A Lively House Party 

Holbrook with Letty Henderson at his side and with 
Lily Valentine and Cosgrave behind. Teddy brought 
up the rear with a strange assortment — the two 
elder Hendersons and Monty. 

It took us only a few moments to get up speed, 
and we flew over the snow-covered roads, the cold 
air buzzing around our heads, the stars looking on, 
beautiful and severe, seeming in their calm to re- 
proach us. We passed groups of low grey buildings 
which I supposed to be Teddy’s stock-farm; but I 
decided not to distract the amateur chauffeur by 
asking questions. Even Mrs. Eustace had ceased to 
be voluble. On either side the bare boughs of the 
trees looked like ever-changing etchings. Our ma- 
chines took each hill as if it were a declivity and, 
after a convulsive pause, they would plunge down 
with a torrent-like speed. At moments I felt as if I 
were on board ship in a fierce gale. It was glorious, 
exhilarating, and, if Alice had not been present, 
I should have been perfectly happy ; but the thought 
that she was at the mercy of that reckless Dick Ferris 
gave me a sickly feeling of apprehension. I have 
often noticed what a damper marriage is on physical 
courage. 

We must have gone a dozen miles when Ferris 
began to slowdown. “Well!” he said, laughing tri- 
umphantly into Mrs. Eustace’s face. “What d’ye 
think about turning back?” 

We stood puffing while the others came up. After 
a great deal of shouting, it was decided that we 
should return by way of the farm and that Teddy 

should take the lead. So we started back by a side- 
17 


258 


Our Best Society 


road, quickly resuming the old pace. The moon was 
going down and over the landscape hung a thin fog. 
The crisp cold had begun to turn to dampness. The 
small farmhouses seemed to dash past us like scenes 
in a panorama, leaving behind the occasional sound of 
a dog’s futile barking. 

As we approached the farm, the clouds that had 
partly obscured the moon passed, and the expanse 
of open country became bathed in a faint light, mak- 
ing a really magnificent spectacle. Dick Ferris shut 
off the speed. 

“ Now is n’t that grand ! ” he exclaimed in his richest 
brogue. “Teddy must have nearly three hundred 
acres there.’’ 

“Did he plan all this himself?” I asked, letting my 
eyes roam over the farm-buildings. 

“Every bit of it. He began as soon as he came 
into his property. He’s a wonderful lad, that 
Teddy.” 

“Let’s get him to take us over the place,” said 
Mrs. Eustace, eagerly. 

“Now?” Ferris gasped, with surprise and amuse- 
ment. “Sure it would be an imposition on the 
animals.” 

“This is just the time,” Mrs. Eustace insisted, 
“while we’re in the mood. We’ll be too tired to- 
morrow. Catch up, Dick,” she urged, “and see what 
the others say.” 

In a few moments we overtook the other machines. 
Teddy expressed his readiness to guide us over the 
stock-farm then and there. “We have electric light 
in all the buildings,” he explained. 


A Lively House Party 


259 


We slowed down as we neared the farm and moved 
stealthily. The gates, at the entrance, were wide 
open, and we passed the little lodge where Teddy’s 
manager lived. The first building we reached was 
the stable for the thoroughbreds. As Teddy switched 
on the electric lights the place focussed itself on our 
view like a picture in a cinematograph: on either 
side ran the stalls, the flanks of the horses visible 
here and there. 

“Heavens!” cried Mrs. Eustace. “See them 
standing up at this hour of the night. Don’t they 
ever go to sleep?” 

“They sleep standing,” Teddy grunted, — “that 
is,” he added, “most of the time. They generally lie 
down for an hour or so during the night.” 

“You see, a good deal depends on the way they’re 
bedded,” Dick Ferris added, more graciously. “Did 
ye ever see such bedding? Look at the fresh straw, 
will you?” 

“Ah, it’s better to be a horse than a human being,” 
Mrs. Eustace tragically remarked, and Dick Ferris 
added with a laugh, “Especially if ye can be a 
thoroughbred.” 

Teddy led us from stall to stall, giving us the name 
of each horse and occasionally a bit of pedigree. 
Three of the horses, he mentioned, had not yet come 
down from the Horse Show, and Dick Ferris added 
that one of these had taken a blue ribbon during the 
week. Mrs. Eustace declared that if she could live 
in a stable so sweet and clean and shining as that, 
she’d consider herself well off. “Haven’t you ever 
noticed what delightful houses stables make?” she 


26 o 


Our Best Society 


flippantly asked. “Some friends of mine in Stock- 
bridge have made a perfectly beautiful summer-house 
out of one of their stables.” 

Teddy, who seemed bored by Mrs. Eustace’s com- 
ments, rather ostentatiously devoted himself to Alice 
and Letty; Dick Ferris, while Cosgrave lingered 
wearily in the background, kept volubly explaining 
the good points of the horses to his companion. I 
could hear him predicting that in five years Teddy 
would be recognised as the greatest breeder of horses 
and cattle in the country and as the owner of the 
finest stock-farm in the world. “Ye should see his 
cows!” he cried out. “Teddy, let’s go to the cow- 
house.” 

“We’re coming to that,” Teddy replied in a growl, 
and he threw open the door, letting in a rush of icy 
air. “Don’t let the horses catch cold,” he admon- 
ished us, and in a moment we were standing under 
the stars again. 

It seems absurd, it seems incredible, that with four 
strokes ringing in our ears, from the tower-clock of 
the carriage-house, we should actually have proceeded 
on a tour of that stock-farm. But no one, except 
Cosgrave, betrayed signs of fatigue; he plainly grew 
more and more resentful. We inspected Teddy’s 
carriages, all kinds of carriages, including several that 
I had never seen before, one of which Dick Ferris 
explained had been specially built according to a 
design of Teddy’s, high, low, broad, narrow, black, 
yellow, and red, and we admired Teddy’s harnesses, 
with mountings of nickel-plate, silver-plate, and gold- 
plate. Then we visited the polo-ponies and the 


26 i 


A Lively House Party 

cart-horses and the stallions. Mrs. Eustace kept in- 
sisting that she was crazy to see the cows, and when 
we finally reached the cow-house she fell into rhap- 
sodies over the patient beasts lying on their haunches 
as they turned on us their big, pathetic eyes. “After 
all,” she exclaimed, “I don’t believe I should care to 
be a horse even if I could be a thoroughbred. It’s 
so much more comfortable to be a cow.” 

“And take your siesta in the middle of the day,” 
said Dick Ferris. “It’s funny to see them squat 
down every day of their lives and go fast asleep.” 

It was cruel and I suppose it was vulgar that I 
should have kept wondering what effect our tour of 
inspection was having on Letty Henderson’s mind. 
If Teddy had been a thousand times more adroit 
than he really was, I reflected, he could not have 
chosen a more ingenious way of showing his import- 
ance and his power. As he turned his sharp little 
eyes on his property, dropping a quiet word here and 
there, he must have assumed in the girl’s eyes some 
of the proportions of a hero. 

When we had inspected the kennels, which, on our 
appearance, burst into an uproar, Mrs. Eustace in- 
sisted that we should be taken down to the race-track. 
So back into the automobiles we climbed and away 
we sped. Already, faint melancholy streaks were 
appearing in the east. 

“We might as well make a night of it,” Mrs. Hen- 
derson said cheerfully. 

I did not quite appreciate the logic of this phi- 
losophy; but I acquiesced. When we reached the 
track, we found that only faint traces of snow had 


262 


Our Best Society 


been left on it. As the three automobiles slowed up 
and lingered together, Mrs. Eustace exclaimed: 

“Oh, would n’t it be great if we could have a race 
over the course!” 

“Well, let me get out first!” Mrs. Henderson cried 
in alarm, appreciating the speed with which Mrs. 
Eustace’s suggestions were usually acted on. 

“No race for me!” Lily Valentine said with de- 
cision. “I prefer to die in my bed!” 

“We might have a race for the chauffeurs,” said 
Dick Ferris, plainly to humour Mrs. Eustace. 

A mass of furs rose from one of the automobiles; 
and Mrs. Eustace leaped from the machine before it 
could be stopped. 

“I object to my manager’s risking his life!” cried 
Lily Valentine, and I noted that there was more than 
apprehension in her voice, something very like 
emotion. 

“Oh, I’m all right, Lily,” said Holbrook reassur- 
ingly. “Begamey.” 

“Who has a stop-watch?” As Mrs. Eustace spoke 
I had a realising sense of the quality in her that had 
brought her into the ranks of the divorced and into 
the complication with which she was even now en- 
tangling herself. I also realised what was more 
serious, the way in which her recklessness could 
involve others. 

“Here’s a watch,” said Teddy, holding out his 
arm toward Mrs. Eustace. “It’s not a stop-watch; 
but it will do just as well.” 

“How many times around in a mile?” Mrs. Eus- 
tace breathlessly asked. “Let’s make it short and 


A Lively House Party 


263 


sharp, or we shall simply perish out here. Now we 
must have a prize for the chauffeur who makes the 
mile in the best time — a prize offered by the ladies. 
What shall it be? Let’s make it a diamond pin. 
We’ll attend to the details afterward.” 

Cosgrave was observing the proceedings with a 
supercilious expression in his face. In the grey 
light, he looked curiously old and bitter. Somehow 
his attitude conveyed a sense of detachment at once 
amusing and pathetic. 

The automobiles lined up slowly, and at the word 
from Mrs. Eustace they moved forward. Holbrook 
was the first to take the lead, and in a few seconds 
he had gained several yards on the two others, who 
kept closely together. He gradually increased his 
advantage and Teddy drew away from Ferris. When 
they neared us again they were moving with such 
speed that it was difficult to tell them apart. They 
passed us with a fearful din which drowned out our 
cries. Holbrook and Ferris, I perceived, were bend- 
ing forward, but Teddy was seated erect, with an air 
of easy control. It was fine to see them round the 
curves and sweep up the track. As they approached 
us a second time, I saw that both Teddy and Ferris 
were gaining on Holbrook and that Teddy was driv- 
ing Ferris to the edge of the track in an effort to pass 
him. In our excitement we ran towards the oppo- 
site comer, and at the turn we saw Teddy fairly leap 
toward Holbrook, leaving Ferris behind. Then we 
1 hurried back to our first position. Teddy and Hol- 
brook came roaring down together, with Holbrook 
on the inside, resisting Teddy’s effort to ride round 


264 


Our Best Society 


him and to wrest his advantage. The next moment, 
Ferris shot past, in mad pursuit and plainly gaining. 
Again we ran to the other side as Holbrook and- 
Teddy turned in parallel curves, with Ferris close 
behind. We strained our eyes to follow, and we 
watched Teddy moving slowly ahead of Holbrook, 
keeping at one side and making a desperate effort to 
run his machine close to the track. Suddenly a 
human figure rose in the air, turned several times, 
and fell heavily on the ground. One machine kept 
moving furiously, radiating a fierce light, and the 
other, its light quenched and seemingly enveloped in 
fog, made a black spot on the landscape, tumbling 
along the track and then remaining stationary. 
Toward this spot Ferris was approaching with terrific 
speed, but, with a quick turn, he dodged it and went 
on. 

I was vaguely aware that, as I watched, I heard 
fearful screams of women, in which Alice’s voice was 
mingled. 

Then Mrs. Eustace cried hysterically : “Some one is 
killed!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AN EARLY MATINEE 

I RAN with all my might, slipping here and there 
over the frozen ground, and with Monty beside 
me. I could hear the others running behind us, and 
I saw the two automobiles tearing back to that black 
spot. As we approached, I saw Ferris and Holbrook 
bending over the limp figure of Teddy. The ghastly 
light of the morning seemed focussed on the boy’s 
white face. 

Holbrook was pressing his ear against Teddy’s 
side. “I don’t get the heart-beat,” he whispered. 

Ferris began to tear off Teddy’s thick gloves. 
“He must have struck his head, the poor chap!” he 
said, and I was impressed by the affection and the 
pity in the voice. I lifted Teddy’s shoulders from 
the hard ground. It was ghastly to see the head fall 
back. 

At that moment Cosgrave came up and he looked 
on helplessly; then he offered a practical suggestion 
that at once roused us. “ Get him into the house and 
telephone for some doctors.” 

I glanced up and I saw Letty Henderson approach- 
ing, followed by Alice and, at some distance, by the 
others. Letty looked as if she might at any moment 
fall to the ground from weakness. On seeing Teddy, 
265 


266 


Our Best Society 


she uttered a smothered cry, threw herself on the 
ground, took his face in her arms, and pressed her 
cheek against it, bursting into tears and wailing aloud. 

We were all stupefied. 

“We must get him back to the house,” Cosgrave 
repeated, and his authority of manner relieved the 
situation. 

The elder Hendersons stood apart. Their faces 
wore a look of hopeless defeat, painful to see. They 
gazed at Teddy as one might view the wreck of a 
ship or a collapsed building. 

Alice took Letty by the arm and drew her away. 
I remember wondering why in that emergency Mrs. 
Henderson did not protect her daughter; but she 
seemed dazed. Henderson came with Mrs. Eustace 
just as Ferris and I lifted Teddy into one of the auto- 
mobiles. I held the boy in my arms and Ferris took 
control of the machine, and Letty and Alice rode in 
the back seat. As we approached the house, Letty 
kept bending forward and brushing Teddy’s face with 
her handkerchief and moaning. 

“ He ’s dead! Oh, I know he ’s dead! ” she repeated 
again and again. 

A middle-aged woman whom I had seen in the 
house received us and with our burden we went to 
the nearest bedroom. Meanwhile, one of the serv- 
ants telephoned for the nearest physician. Other 
servants quickly removed Teddy’s outer garments 
and bathed his face. He gave no sign of life. 

Letty and Alice were busying themselves about the 
room, doing a thousand things, apparently, I could 
not tell what. A fearful bustle went on about us. 


An Early Matinee 267 

It was only keeping us, I felt sure, from facing the 
truth. 

How the others got back, I cannot remember. I 
only know that, after a time, I heard their voices in 
the hall. Then some one proposed that Ferris or 
Holbrook go in an automobile with one of the serv- 
ants for a guide and bring the doctor. 

It struck me as strange that no one had thought of 
that before. 

For a long time there was running about and 
weeping and telephoning to New York. Meanwhile, 
we all grew convinced that, though Teddy might not 
be dead, he could not possibly be saved. I recall 
going from room to room in that strange house and 
finding everything familiar. I felt as if I had been 
there for weeks. I suppose we were all a little crazy. 

At last the local doctor came, a slight, blond young 
man with a little mustache. He carried a little bag 
like the bag doctors carry on the stage, and he had 
a curiously superficial and inadequate air. Ferris 
and I followed him into the room. He made a quick 
examination, and he announced that Teddy was not 
dead, but he doubted if much could be done. 

His indifferent manner alarmed me. But, having 
delivered his opinion, he sent Holbrook back in the 
automobile for his electric batteries, and he set de- 
sperately to work. 

Two hours later Teddy gave signs of life. I had 
the good fortune to be the one to break the news 
to the guests downstairs. They included every one in 
the house party except Letty and her mother, who, 
on the arrival of the doctor, had disappeared. Alice 


268 


Our Best Society 


volunteered to tell Letty, and the others announced 
that they were going to bed. 

“I suppose we ought to leave as soon as we can,” 
said Mrs. Eustace. “But there ’s no train till the 
afternoon.” Then she maliciously added: “ Of course, 
the Hendersons will stay. They seem to own Teddy 
now.” 

Mrs. Eustace walked into the hall and I followed, 
to see if Alice were coming down again. The others 
waved their hands to us and went upstairs. 

“It does seem rather stupid to go to bed at this 
time,” she said. 

I was leaning forward to pick up a piece of paper 
that I had noticed on the floor. “Here’s something 
that must have dropped out of some one’s pocket,” 
I said. 

“Teddy’s probably,” Mrs. Eustace remarked, ab- 
sently, and as I looked at the writing she glanced 
over my shoulder. We both read the first few lines 
in a large masculine hand. 

“ . . . been pretty patient about your matters. 

When you gave me the diamonds in pledge, it was 
understood that you were to redeem them within 
three days, and it was on that assurance I lent you 
the fifteen hundred dollars. Now I ” 

Mechanically I let my hand drop. “It ’s evidently 
a private letter,” I said, and I resisted an inclination 
to hold the paper behind my back. Somehow, I 
could not look into Mrs. Eustace’s face. 

“It ’s mine,” she said, quietly, and she reached out. 

Then I looked at her and was startled by the ex- 
pression in her eyes. They fairly crackled. 


An Early Matinee 269 


“Yours?” I repeated, in amazement. 

She bowed with a dignity that I had not noticed 
in her before. “I must have dropped it from my 
fur coat.” 

I had just one of two things to do: either to accuse 
her of lying and of wishing to pry into the private 
affairs of some one else, or to give up the letter. So 
I gave up the letter, and I have never done an act of 
politeness with so miserable a conscience. 

Mrs. Eustace walked serenely upstairs, giving me 
a smile over the baluster, from the very spot where 
Cosgrave had come a-cropper. “It’s hardly good- 
night, I suppose,” she said. “ Perhaps it ought to be 
good-morning. ” 

“ Pleasant dreams to you,” I replied, without mean- 
ing to be disagreeable, and I was relieved when she 
disappeared. Too nervous to keep still, I began to 
pace the hall. The whole house was wrapped in si- 
lence, and I inwardly shivered. Perhaps it was the 
events of the night, perhaps it was loss of sleep — but 
something had given me a sense of the horror of life. 
Could it be that not twelve hours had passed since 
Alice and I were at the Horse Show ? Our little apart- 
ment seemed a haven of peace now — impregnably 
fortified against danger. 

My thought was so morbid, hectic, perhaps I ought 
to say, that I had a guilty sense on hearing my name 
called in a whisper. I walked out into the hall and 
I saw Alice at the head of the stairs. She beckoned 
to me and I followed her into the suite that had been 
assigned to us, a big room filled with heavy old fur- 
niture, two dressing-rooms, and a bath. 


2 "JO 


Our Best Society 


“This looks comfortable,” I said, surveying the 
place, but Alice was in no mood to discuss material 
things. 

“I’ve been talking with Letty’s mother,” she ex- 
claimed, still whispering, though no one could pos- 
sibly hear us. “She says she’s known all along that 
Letty was in love with him.” 

“Well, that’s a good joke on you,” I replied, re- 
producing her manner of deep secrecy. 

“What was?” Alice said with indignant innocence. 

“She fooled you all right.” 

“It was certainly very remarkable,” Alice acknow- 
ledged. “Of course, if he lives, he’ll get her now.” 

“You mean that some one will tell him how she 
behaved — her mother, I suppose.” 

“She’ll want to marry him. That is, of course — ” 
Alice checked herself. “The doctors say he is going 
to live.” 

“ Why will she want to marry him? Do you mean 
that she ’ll consider herself compromised by that rush 
of sympathy?” 

“She’ll think that she’s in love with him.” 

“Well, won’t she be?” 

“As much as she is now,” Alice oracularly replied. 

“Well, it’s too deep for me!” I exclaimed. 

“It’s perfectly simple. For a long time now 
Teddy has been in her imagination. At first, she 
hated him, or she thought she did. That may have 
been mere obstinacy. Then he piqued her interest. 
For the past few days at the Horse Show he’s been a 
great personage. And, then, to-night here— — ” 

“He ’§ been It!” I concluded. 


An Early Matinde 


271 


“The accident took place at exactly the right 
psychological moment. The only danger is ” 

“ Of his dying.” 

“ Of her dying — from shame,” Alice corrected, with 
a faint smile. 

“Shame does n’t kill.” 

“Of course,” Alice went on, scorning my wisdom, 
“the excitement rather kept her from realising to- 
night. But when she wakes up in the morning it 
will be perfectly awful for her.” 

“Especially if she hears that Teddy has eaten a 
hearty breakfast. The only decent thing for him to 
do is to propose marriage at once.” 

“He’ll have to get all these people out of the 
house first.” 

“Including ourselves.” 

“ Mrs. Henderson has asked us to stay till Monday.” 

I thought of Mrs. Eustace. “Well, she is running 
things, is n’t she?” 

“ She says our staying will make it easier for Letty. 
And she says that Teddy likes us both ever so much.” 

“So she has begun to interpret Teddy already, has 
she? Poor Teddy! Think of those two people as 
In-Laws for life.” 

In reproof of my flippancy, Alice turned away. 
“ I must get some sleep,” she said. 

“Well, I’ve never been so wide-awake in my life. 
I’m going downstairs to read.” 

Then I thought of that letter-episode; but, fearing 
that a little more agitation would keep Alice awake, 
I resolved to say nothing about it for the present. 

I tiptoed through the hall, pausing for a moment to 


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Our Best Society 


listen at Teddy’s door, without hearing a sound, and 
I then went down-stairs. In the fire place of the big 
living-room where I had observed the books and the 
pipes, I was delighted to find that two enormous logs 
were blazing. I chose a mild-looking pipe, filled it 
with some tobacco from a bowl on one of the tables, 
picked up a book, and settled myself comfortably. I 
only made a pretence of reading, for the warmth from 
the fire gradually soothed me and I should certainly 
have fallen sound asleep if I had not heard a rustle 
of skirts. I looked around and saw Lily Valentine, 
enveloped in a loose blue silk gown half-covered with 
filmy lace that had big yellow butterflies woven in it. 
Her hair hung down her back in a long braid. I had 
never seen her look so pretty and picturesque. 

She made a little squeak of alarm, and I jumped, 
laughing, from my seat. When she saw my face, she 
looked relieved. 

“Oh, it’s only the dramatist,’’ she said. “I 
could n’t sleep and I grew so nervous that I could n’t 
even stay in bed. I thought I could steal down and 
get a book without any one’s seeing me.” She shiv- 
ered, unnecessarily, I thought, for the house was 
warm enough, and she drew the silk and lace closely 
about her thin figure. “Don’t you think this place 
is spooky?” 

“I suppose any place is apt to seem spooky if 
you’ve been staying up all night.” 

“I’m going to sit in your chair,” the actress went 
on, still shivering. “You draw up another, won’t 
you? Now don’t look at my feet.” She drew her 
knees toward her chin, but not before I had caught 


An Early Matinee 273 

a glimpse of pink and white toes peering out of little 
sandals. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Lily Valentine re- 
sumed. “You see, I’m so used to running about in 
the theatre in neglige that I suppose I ’ve become 
positively brazen. Still,” — she glanced apprehen- 
sively at the door, — “I don’t want to be caught by 
those society people,” she said. “I have to be aw- 
fully circumspect before them. People who are n’t 
actors are so queer. That ’s one beautiful thing 
about the theatre: no one ever misunderstands — 
trifles, I mean. But these ,” she added scornfully, 
with a turn of her pretty wrist, “ they ’re always ready 
to think the most dreadful things.” 

“At this moment Society is sound asleep!” I 
remarked. 

“Yes, I suppose that for them seven o’clock in the 
morning is the witching hour of night. Well, it is 
for me, too, usually.” Then her face brightened. 
“Hasn’t it been exciting? Do you know, it all 
seemed unreal to me ? I kept thinking of it as a play. 
It made me so cross. It’s such a privilege to be in a 
real tragedy, is n’t it? I ’ve assisted at so few. With 
me, it’s been comedy principally — and farce.” 

“I suppose all terrible things seem unreal to the 
people who are going through them,” I said, unable 
to resist making a fine literary generalisation. 

“Well, that sounds awfully deep. I wonder if it’s 
really so,” Miss Valentine calmly retorted. I don’t 
think that she meant to snub me; she was merely 
used to doing what most of us frequently do not dare 
to do, expressing exactly what she thought. 

18 


Our Best Society 


274 

“And then Letty Henderson,” she went on, “mak- 
ing that scene! And doing it just like an actress. 
Positively, it took my breath away. The only thing 
I missed was the footlights. Foolish girl,” she added 
reflectively, “to give herself away like that!” 

“Maybe they’re engaged, ” I dishonestly remarked, 
with some vague notion of being chivalrous. 

Miss Valentine gave me a reproachful look. “I 
hope they will be soon,” she said with a significance 
that made me realise how accurately she had dupli- 
cated my train of thought. “Well, let’s talk about 
pleasant things. Have you been a good boy and 
done a lot of work?” 

“ I ’ve done some work,” I evasively replied. “I’m 
not sure it’s good work.” 

“Dear me! What conscious modesty. The great 
thing is to get work done — good or bad. Now I’m 
going to tell you a secret. We’ve been ordered off 
to the road on next Saturday night. The announce- 
ment of the last week is to be made in the papers 
this morning.” 

“That is, indeed, a secret,” I said with a smile. 
“Thank you for this mark of confidence.” 

“And do you know what that means unless you 
write a perfectly great play? It means a heart- 
breaking tour for me all winter. You have my life 
in your hands.” 

“I appreciate the responsibility,” I replied with a 
gravity not altogether assumed. 

“They’re nearly famished for attractions — the 
managers here. Everything is falling down. So 
there’s some consolation for me. If we put your 


An Early Matinee 


275 


play on and it’s a go, I may be able to get back to 
New York before the winter’s over. There’s going 
to be a great deal doing that I don’t care to miss. 
Now I ’ve been thinking of that entrance of mine on 
horseback. ’ ’ 

“Yes?” I said, apprehensively, feeling as people do 
when warding off danger. 

“I don’t like it. In the first place, it’s been done 
to the death in dozens of old pieces.” 

“I thought it was quite original!” I gasped. 

“That’s because you go to the literary things. 
From those anaemic plays you’d never know that a 
horse existed. Can you imagine Ibsen introducing 
any healthy animal into a play of his? I don’t sup- 
pose you’ve seen a melodrama since you were a boy. 
In the melodramas heroines are always entering on 
horseback. Now I don’t look well on a horse.” 

I started to protest. 

“Don’t. This is business. I know. Besides, I’m 
not especially graceful, and I don’t believe I could 
make that jump to the ground with the proper sang- 
froid and authority. And on the first night” — Miss 
Valentine pressed her hands against her ears in an 
ecstasy of anguish — “on the first night I should sim- 
ply die of fright for fear the horse would jump over 
the foot-lights or something awful would happen. 
Suppose I should get my feet entangled in the stir- 
rups! And if the first entrance went wrong, it would 
be all up with me for the rest of the evening. And 
think what would happen to the play.” 

“I will change that entrance!” I promptly de- 
clared, 


276 


Our Best Society 


“A nice demure entrance would be better, I’m 
sure,” Miss Valentine resumed sweetly. ‘‘And you ’re 
going to give me plenty of comedy, are n’t you? Of 
course, I still want emotional intensity too; but 
people are used to seeing me in comedy, and they love 
to be amused. Some day, I ’m going to make them 
accept me in a great big r 61 e; but not yet awhile. 
I ’ll wait till I understand more about life. Do you 
know,” she went on with an eagerness that made me 
suspect the night’s adventures had left her a little 
hysterical, ‘‘I believe that’s the great trouble with 
me. I went on the stage too young. It’s all non-* 
sense, the talk of the old-fashioned actors about the 
earlier the training the better, as if acting were just 
a matter of habit. If it’s worth anything, it must 
have some basis of intellectuality.” 

‘‘True!” I said, with a seriousness which kept in 
check an inclination to smile. I wished that Alice 
might be present to hear this girl lay down the law 
about art. ‘‘But don’t you think,” I ventured to 
say, ‘‘that actors gain a good deal by just going on 
with their work and by travelling?” 

‘‘A precious lot there is to be gained in that way!” 
Miss Valentine retorted. She must have suspected 
patronage. M What is to be learned from the rubbish 
that most of them play in? And as for travelling, 
the most they learn is that hotels are the deadliest, 
dreariest places in the world, and that there’s no 
place like New York. You can’t live on the road; 
you can’t even read anything except the cheap maga- 
zines that you buy on the trains, and then, every 
minute, you’re wearing your eyes out. Travelling! 


An Early Matinee 277 

I consider that just so much time taken out of my 
life.” 

I think I should have resented Miss Valentine’s 
scolding manner if I had not reflected that the poor 
child needed sleep. 

“There’s nothing in acting except for the few who 
are big successes.” The girl rested her chin in her 
hand and mused. “And, by the way.” She leaned 
eagerly toward me. “ You’re keeping the cast down, 
are n’t you? Don’t have any superfluous people. 
The smaller the cast the better. And oh! don’t 
have many women in. They’re such a trial. After 
all, people pay to see the star, don’t they?” 

“I suppose they do,” I assented, beginning to feel 
sick at heart. If Miss Valentine made many more 
restrictions, I should find it hard to go on with the 
play. Already, I reflected, with painful anxiety, I 
had introduced five women beside the star. I re- 
solved not to tell her. 

“I wouldn’t make the leading man’s part too 
strong, if I were you. There ’s a pretty serious danger 
there. Yesterday, after that matinee , I felt too tired 
to change and I had dinner sent into my dressing- 
room and went over the book again. It quite fright- 
ened me to see how strong Prescott was.” 

“Francesca has all the sympathy,” I hastily 
asserted. 

“I know, but audiences — especially women — are 
attracted by men-characters with a streak of the 
devil in them. I’m so afraid that you’re going to 
make Francesca too good.” 

We heard steps on the stairs and Miss Valentine 


Our Best Society 


2 78 

looked alarmed. She drew her dress more tightly 
around her feet. 

“It’s probably one of the servants,” I said. “Be- 
sides,” I added, to reassure her, “it’s nearly eight 
o’clock in the morning, hardly an hour for a rendez- 
vous.” 

“Eight o’clock, is it possible?” She surveyed the 
place with an air of bewilderment. “I’m all mixed 
up. Now that you mention the time, I begin to feel 
hungry.” 

The imposing presence of Cosgrave presented itself 
at the door. He wore a loose-fitting tweed suit with 
a jacket reaching almost to his knees. His clothes 
reminded me that I was still in evening dress. 

“Early risers?” said Cosgrave, with a faint tinge 
of sarcasm, and Lily Valentine, literally clinging to 
her feet with both hands, replied: “Mr. Foster does 
not deserve any credit. He ’s been up all night. I ’m 
the early riser.” 

Cosgrave smiled with supercilious humour. His 
eyes were roaming over the floor. 

“Lost anything?” Miss Valentine asked, and Cos- 
grave’s face grew pink. 

“I dropped part of a letter out of my pocket last 
night. I thought it might be here.” 

“Possibly in the hall,” said Miss Valentine with a 
malicious inflection that conveyed a reference to Cos- 
grave’s exhibition of the night before. 

“It’s of no importance,” he said, and he walked 
unceremoniously out of the room. We heard him 
moving about in the hall and we talked loudly about 
commonplace subjects, as people do when they think 


An Early Matinee 


279 

some one is listening. Through the windows we saw 
him cross the porch and start down the path, still 
keeping his eyes on the ground. 

“He’s actually going for a constitutional,” cried 
Lily Valentine in amazement, and I said nothing. 

One of the servants came down. The doctors, he 
said, had announced that all danger was passed and 
that the patient was not likely to suffer any serious 
consequences from the accident. Then he proposed 
that he bring some coffee and eggs. “We can serve 
them here, sir.” He glanced tentatively from the 
actress to me. 

Lily Valentine shook her head. “In my room, if 
you please,” she said, and smiling at me, she added, 
“I suppose Mr. Foster will want to breakfast with 
his wife.” 

I replied that I would eat downstairs, and the serv- 
ant withdrew. Then Miss Valentine rose precipi- 
tately to her feet. “I feel as if both my legs were 
broken,” she whispered, and she walked limply across 
the room. “I’m going to get back before any one 
else catches me,” and, forgetting the book she had 
come for, she passed into the hall. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE MORNING AFTER 


UR little talk had depressed me and for a few 



KJ moments I sat limply in front of the fire. I 
perceived now with a powerful vividness that there 
was many a slip between play-writing and produc- 
tion. No wonder dramatists wore out their lives 
waiting for their chance, and, when they thought the 
chance had come, discovered it to be an illusion. 
Even if the play were put into rehearsal, a mere 
whim of this girl’s might make all my work futile. I 
recalled play after play that had actually been an- 
nounced for production and then had passed quietly 
into oblivion. Fortunately, I was aroused from my 
torpor by the return of the servant. 

“Mrs. Henderson is coming down to breakfast, sir. 
We shall serve it at nine o’clock.” 

I leaped to my feet and hurried up-stairs. It was 
ridiculous, my remaining in those evening clothes. 
Alice was sleeping peacefully and I tried not to wake 
her. I took an ice-cold bath to rouse myself, shaved, 
and dressed quickly. When I went down again, Mrs. 
Henderson was in the living-room engaged in earnest 
talk with her husband. They seemed to be on a new 
basis of intimacy ; they looked as if they had enjoyed 
a good rest, and their faces positively glowed. When 


The Morning After 


281 


I asked for Miss Henderson, the girl’s father rubbed 
his hands and answered with a fine heartiness: “She 
is sound asleep, poor child. It was such a shock to 
her, Teddy’s accident. When she wakes up, she’ll 
doubtless feel much better.” 

The servant entered to announce breakfast. Mrs. 
Henderson sat at the head of the table and her hus- 
band took the place opposite. They both had a pro- 
prietary air. They radiated satisfaction and good 
cheer. 

“Are we the only early birds?” said Mrs. Hender- 
son, as she manipulated the coffee-urn. 

I explained that Cosgrave must be wandering 
about not far off. 

“Oh, there’s no knowing when he'll come back,” 
Mrs. Henderson amiably remarked. “Those artistic 
people are so erratic.” 

They asked if I had been able to sleep and, when I 
replied that I had not gone to bed at all, Mrs. Hender- 
son expressed solicitude. 

“After all,” said Henderson grandly, “man is a 
nocturnal animal. In the savage state he used to 
go out only at night, in order to avoid other animals, 
bigger, that used to prey on him. Really, I never 
feel so bright in the morning as I do when I ’ve either 
had two or three hours’ sleep or have n’t gone to bed 
at all.” 

I felt that Mrs. Henderson was undergoing a tem- 
porary eclipse; for a few moments, she looked quite 
fatigued around the eyes. 

“Take the Negro in the South, for example,” Hen- 
derson went on, “you know how dull and shiftless 


282 


Our Best Society 


he is by day, — too lazy to move. Ah, but at night 
he is another creature. You’ll find him five miles 
away from home, tearing along the road, his eyes 
shining. After all, civilisation moves in a circle. 
After a certain point is reached, the nearer we ap- 
proach the savage.” 

I was enchanted with this unexpected burst of 
eloquence. I thought I could foresee what Hender- 
son would become with large prosperity and ease, 
and I realised how dearly his wife would have to 
pay for her succession of dazzling gowns and dinner- 
parties. Think of having to listen to him for a whole 
lifetime ! 

Between Henderson’s inflations, Mrs. Henderson 
would occasionally introduced a personal remark. She 
explained that she was so glad that Letty had made 
a friend like Alice; it was a great help to a young 
girl to know an older woman; and Letty had such 
confidence in Alice’s advice. I could not tell whether 
she was trying merely to be polite or was covertly 
ridiculing Alice and me and crowing over us. If 
Alice had been there, she would have known in a 

jiffy- 

After breakfast, on seeing that Alice was still asleep, 
I decided to go out for a walk. I made my way 
along the path we had taken the night before and 
then turned into the road leading to the farm. The 
cold, clear air vibrated with sunshine, and the 
boughs of the trees, ice-laden, gleamed as if decorated 
with gems. In the daylight the farm looked even 
more vast and impressive than it had appeared the 
night before. The buildings seemed to have almost 


The Morning After 283 

doubled in size. Everywhere there was a sense of 
order, and prosperity and wholesome cleanliness. 

I walked down the incline leading to the race-track 
and, across the field, I saw two figures. They proved 
to be Mrs. Eustace and Dick Ferris. They waved 
their hands to me, and as I approached them I saw 
that they had come on the same errand as my own. 

“You must have stolen out of the house,” I said, 
and Mrs. Eustace shrugged her shoulders: “We knew 
you were in there; but I object to eating the first 
meal of the day en jamille. So I had some coffee 
sent up.” In spite of their exceedingly cordial greet- 
ing, I saw that they were annoyed at this intrusion. 
They had plainly expected to be alone. I wondered 
if they had encountered Cosgrave; but I avoided 
mentioning his name. 

Teddy’s automobile had been left where it lay the 
night before, and it was a pitiful sight. It was 
turned completely over, and one of the tires, sus- 
pended in the air, was soft to flabbiness. One wheel 
was twisted out of shape and the backs of the seats 
were completely demolished; little piles of debris , 
showing the course of the machine after the accident, 
zig-zagged along the track. 

“One of the tires must have burst,” said Ferris, 
critically examining the wreck, “and the poor boy 
must have lost control of the machine.” 

“Oh, well, he’s lucky to have escaped with his 
life,” said Mrs. Eustace philosophically. She seemed 
to have forgotten that it was she who had inspired 
the foolhardy race. 

I was trying to think of an excuse to help me to 


284 


Our Best Society 


escape, when I looked up and saw Cosgrave across 
the track. Mrs. Eustace grew red in the face and 
then white around the lips. As Cosgrave approached, 
she ostentatiously turned her back. The painter 
nodded to us and, walking straight up to Mrs. Eus- 
tace, he said: 

“Aren’t you afraid of catching cold out here? 
You’d better go back to the house.” 

She looked at him without replying. Ferris 
watched the encounter, his little blue eyes bright with 
astonishment. 

“I don’t think I need any assistance from you, Mr. 
Cosgrave, in the care of my health.” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Cosgrave said, in a low 
voice, and he turned away. 

“I do think we ought to go back, honest,” Dick 
Ferris interposed, in his soothing brogue and his most 
conciliatory manner. “I haven’t had any break- 
fast yet,” he said, with a smile. 

So we returned together, talking aimlessly and try- 
ing not to appear ill at ease. Mrs. Eustace walked 
with lofty unconcern, acting as if Cosgrave were not 
present, and addressing herself almost exclusively to 
Ferris in a familiar, almost caressing tone. 

As we stepped on the porch of the house, Lily Val- 
entine, who from the hall had seen us approaching ? 
came bounding out in a charming grey cloth frock. 
She was evidently in very good humour. “Our in- 
valid has just had breakfast,” she announced, “and 
the doctors say he can come down-stairs for a little 
while by-and-by.” She extended her hands out from 
her ears in wild burlesque. “But you should see his 


The Morning After 


285 


head ! I ’ve just had a glimpse of him ; they would n’t 
let me go in. He’s covered with bandages to the 
tip of his nose.” She suddenly faced Cosgrave. 
“Have you found your letter?” she cried. 

“What letter was that?” Mrs. Eustace asked 
sharply, fixing her eyes for the first time on Cosgrave. 

“Nothing of any account,” he said carelessly. 

“I think you must mean this,” she said, and, with 
an impressive indifference to what she had said to me 
only a few hours before, she drew the sheet from the 
muff that she carried and passed it to him. 

“Oh, thank you,” he replied, and, as he walked 
into the house, Mrs. Eustace said to the actress in a 
loud voice: “Dick Ferris is going to drive me to 
Westland. There’s a train for New York at eleven 
o’clock.” 

When I went up-stairs, Alice was wide-awake. I 
rapidly gave an account of the events since she had 
gone to bed. “I don’t see why we can’t take the 
eleven o’clock train from Westland too,” I concluded. 

“And abandon Letty?” said Alice. 

“ It seems to me she has abandoned us.” 

“She did n’t know her own mind,” Alice declared. 
“I’ve said that all along.” 

I could not recall Alice’s saying it, but I let the 
remark stand. “It will be interesting to know how 
she’ll explain.” 

“She won’t explain,” Alice prophesied with an air 
of profound conviction. 

“ I hope you have n’t said anything against Teddy.” 

Alice became indignant. “As if I’d do anything 
so foolish.” 


286 


Our Best Society 


“It’s bad enough to have heard her speak against 
him. I don’t see how she can ever forgive you 
that.” 

“Oh, Edward, if women were the deep, scheming 
creatures that you pretend to think they are, it 
would n’t be possible to live.” 

I fairly gasped. I stared at Alice, speechless. 

“Every girl who cares for a man feels unsettled, 
and uncertain at first. You know perfectly well that 
when I first saw you I positively hated you.” 

That last remark silenced me. I could not endure 
the comparison. 

After a long interval, Alice resumed: “It’s really 
very pleasant, taking breakfast in bed. And then 
the excitement of the past twelve hours has done me 
a lot of good.” 

I heard a light feminine step and some one knocked. 
I bolted into the dressing-room, and a moment later 
Mrs. Henderson was addressing Alice. Through the 
closed door I could catch only a faint murmur of 
voices. Then there was silence. I opened the door 
and found the room empty. So I surmised that 
Alice had slipped on her dressing-gown and gone over 
to see Letty. For a half-hour I waited for her to 
return. Finally she entered the room. In her eyes 
there was a look of exaltation, as well as the traces 
of tears. 

“She’s much better,” said Alice, speaking as from 
a great height. 

“Doesn’t feel ashamed?” I ventured. 

“Ashamed!” Alice looked hurt. But she would 
not condescend to come down and meet me on my 


The Morning After 287 

level. “She has a very beautiful nature,” said Alice, 
speaking as one who has just left a cathedral. 

“Well, any news?” I asked. 

Alice hesitated. I knew that she did not like my 
manner; but there was something in her mind that 
she wished to say. At last, she remarked, somewhat 
haughtily, “He has asked her mother to bring her to 
him.” 

“With those bandages on his head!” 

Alice received this remark with silent contempt. 

Finally I said, in a whisper, “Has she gone?” 

Alice gave vent to a deep luxurious sigh. “She’s 
changing her dress.” 

I went down-stairs again, and I found Mrs. Eus- 
tace, wrapped in furs, saying good-bye to the Hen- 
dersons. “I suppose I shall perish on that long 
drive,” she said, “but I will never enter an automo- 
bile again — never as long as I live,” she repeated in a 
loud voice. She kissed Lily Valentine affectionately. 
“What in the world are you going to do?” she said, 
without offering to take her along. 

“I’m going on the same train,” the actress non- 
chalantly replied. “I’ve sent up to Mr. Manager — 
he and Monty, I suppose, are sound asleep — and 
he ’ll go with me in one of the automobiles. But we 
sha’n’t start for ages yet.” 

Not a word was said about Cosgrave. I wondered 
what had become of him. 

We saw the pair off and returned to the house with 
a feeling of desolateness, which I attributed to the 
disappearance of Dick Ferris. “Isn’t it horrid 
when a nice party like this is spoiled!” said Lily 


288 


Our Best Society 


Valentine, petulantly. “I thought I should have a 
good rest from the theatre and go back feeling fresh. 
There are times when I positively hate New York.” 

She remained cross till her departure with Hol- 
brook, who appeared just as the automobile came 
puffing up to the porch. He seemed to be in his most 
genial humour, and I suspected that he was glad to 
escape and that he was especially pleased to carry 
Miss Valentine away with him. Just as they were 
about to start, Cosgrave suddenly burst out on the 
porch carrying a grip in his hand. 

“Oh, I say, aren’t you going to take me along?” 
he cried, and Holbrook, making a brave effort to hide 
his disappointment, answered, “Why, yes, old chap, 
of course.” 

I returned to Alice, who was just finishing dressing, 
and I gave her the messages that the departing guests 
had left for her. She was especially interested in the 
news of Cosgrave’s leave-taking. 

“It’s a good joke on him to have to go up in the 
same train with her,” I said. 

Alice was absorbed. in following her own thought. 
“Of course, it’s all very flattering to him,” she said. 

“To Cosgrave?” I cried in astonishment. 

Alice shook her head impatiently. “I hope that 
he won’t misunderstand it,” she impetuously contin- 
ued, as if conferring with herself. 

“Ferris!” I exclaimed, a light breaking on my con- 
sciousness. “ Dick Ferris — that nice, simple — Oh! ” 

“He’s not nearly so simple as he acts,” said Alice, 
“and he knows perfectly well what he wants.” Then 
she abruptly changed the subject. 


The Morning After 


289 


We lunched at one o’clock, — the Hendersons, Doc- 
tor Perrin, a rather nervous and exceedingly self-con- 
scious man with a staccato voice and rasping manner 
of speech. Mrs. Henderson announced that her 
daughter felt unequal to coming down-stairs, and that 
Monty had not as yet waked up. In the Hendersons 
I observed a manner which suggested the words of 
the hymn, “Peace, perfect Peace.” Henderson’s 
conversation took on a tone that had in it a religious 
exaltation. The Doctor was plainly impressed by 
him. Occasionally, the Doctor would express opin- 
ions with which Henderson did not agree, and Hen- 
derson would set him right with a quiet and easy 
deliberateness. At the close of the meal, the Doctor 
went up-stairs with the Hendersons to take a last look 
at the patient before leaving for New York. Alice and 
I returned to the living-room. On his return, as the 
Doctor passed the hall to the porch, we heard him say : 
“ It ’s really marvellous, — his recuperative power. In 
the past two hours he has become another man.” 

“Ah, it’s such a comfort,” said Mrs. Henderson, 
fervently. “He has so much to live for.” 

Mrs. Henderson bade the Doctor good-bye and we 
heard him starting off in an automobile. Then she 
entered the living-room. Her face was flushed and 
her eyes were glowing with a triumph that had in it 
a curiously malignant and sinister suggestion. 

“Mrs. Foster,” she said, going up to Alice and ex- 
tending both hands, “I have something to tell you. 
I know it will make you and Mr. Foster very, very 
happy, just as it has made Mr. Henderson and me. 

Our daughter has just become engaged.” 

19 


CHAPTER XX 


Mrs. HENDERSON MEETS THE SITUATION 
HOUGH Alice and I had been prepared for the 



1 announcement, it nevertheless shocked us. 
Alice was the first to recover. “How perfectly de- 
lightful!” she exclaimed with a whole-souled enthusi- 
asm that even in the veteran of society must have 
aroused sincere admiration. 

“Letty has been fond of Theodore for a long, long 
time,” Mrs. Henderson resumed with a beautiful 
suavity. Already she looked as if a fearful load of 
trouble had been lifted from her and she had grown 
finer, smoother, younger, and more serene. “But 
she is such a reserved creature, one would never sus- 
pect it, though, of course, it has been plain to her 
father and me.” She lifted her eyebrows in humor- 
ous deprecation. “I really believe she didn’t know 
herself till last night when she saw poor dear Theodore 
lying out there in the snow.” Mrs. Henderson’s 
eyes became suffused with tears; her shoulders rose 
in a luxurious sigh. “She’s with him now. It’s 
sweet to see them together. He’s holding both her 
hands. He says he can’t realize that it’s all true, 
and he can’t bear to let her go. The dear infants!” 

A servant entered to make some inquiry about 
dinner, and Mrs. Henderson became absorbed in prac- 


290 


Mrs. Henderson Meets the Situation 291 


tical affairs. Alice and I walked cautiously into a 
corner of the room; an unkind observer might say 
that we skulked. Something that the servant men- 
tioned caused Mrs. Henderson, oblivious of us, to 
walk quickly out of the room. 

Alice and I stared into each other’s eyes for a long, 
long time. 

“Doesn’t that teach us a lesson?” I whispered 
with deep impressiveness, and I gave myself credit 
for using the first personal pronoun. 

“I know exactly what you’re going to say, Ned.” 
Alice spoke feverishly. “But the rebuke is enough 
without any moralising. Besides,” she illogically 
added, “I have n’t interfered nearly as much as you 
think. But, oh, is n’t it dreadful to see any one 
wallowing in such a triumph!” 

We heard steps on the stairs, and we fell into a 
guilty silence. Then Monty entered the room. We 
had actually forgotten that he was in the house, and 
we both uttered little gasps of surprise. He looked 
sleepy and blear-eyed. 

“Well,” he said, sinking into a seat near us, “where 
is everybody?” 

When we explained, he grew peevish. “They 
might have waked me up. Here’s a whole Sunday 
gone to waste. I might have got in a half-dozen 
calls this afternoon.” He energetically rubbed his 
face with both hands. “Gee! it’s awful, this sitting 
up all night.” 

Alice and I regarded him with as much tolerance 
as we could assume. 

“Have you had breakfast?” said Alice, and Monty 


292 


Our Best Society 


replied, in the tone I have often heard boys employ 
in response to maternal solicitude: “Oh, I had some 
tea and toast, — all I wanted.’ * 

I felt a remote impulse to assault Monty. 

“Where’s Letty?” the boy asked, looking around, 
as if he expected to see her hiding somewhere. His 
manner suggested that, by not being present, the girl 
had done him an injury. 

“She’s in Mr. Markoe’s room,” said Alice. 

Then Monty woke up. His eyes grew larger; his 
face flushed. 

“Well, Teddy’s all right, isn’t he?” he breath- 
lessly asked. “The servant that brought my break- 
fast ” 

“Oh, yes,” said Alice with an absent-minded air, 
and I saw that she was enjoying the luxury of keeping 
back the great news. 

Then Monty’s figure became electrical. “I’ll bet 
those two people are engaged!” he cried out. He 
looked sharply at Alice and then he fixed his gaze on 
me. 

Alice and I sat in silence. 

“Do you know anything about it?” he asked, but, 
being uncertain as to which of us was addressed, we 
offered no answer. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Monty said under his 
breath, and he went on with indignation: “ This is no 
place for me. I intend to get out.” 

We heard Mrs. Henderson’s voice in the hall and 
Monty shot from the room. A whispered talk fol- 
lowed, not a word of which reached us. Then skirts 
rustled up the stairs and Monty came back. 


Mrs. Henderson Meets the Situation 293 


“Have you heard thfe news?” he said to us in a 
strained voice, and Alice replied: “Yes, we’ve heard 
it.” 

He made no reference to our insincerity of a few 
moments before. He was absorbed. At last he said, 
speaking to himself: “No train for three hours. I ’ve 
a good mind to walk.” Then he lifted his head and 
stared at us: “What are you people staying for?” 

“Because Letty wishes us to stay,” Alice replied, 
speaking very pleasantly. 

“Well, I don’t believe she wants me,” Monty 
grumbled. He threw himself into a seat beside Alice. 
“Don’t you hate it when people get engaged?” he 
said. “They ’re always such bores. Now old Teddy 
won’t be good for anything for — I wonder when 
they’re going to get married. I’ll bet it’ll be soon.” 
He laughed aloud, harshly, painfully. “I wonder 
what Bessie Cartwright will think of it!” He darted 
wildly out of the room, and we heard him springing 
up the stairs. 

“He acts like a lunatic,” I said to Alice, but Alice 
was pursuing another train of thought. 

“Who is Bessie Cartwright?” she asked. 

“I haven’t the remotest idea. Some girl Teddy 
has been flirting with, probably.” 

“I know I’ve heard that name before,” Alice in- 
sisted. 

“You’ve read it in the society columns.” 

Alice drew her lower lip between her thumb and 
forefinger. “I haven’t read it in the society col- 
umns,” she gravely announced. 

I was too indifferent to Teddy’s past flames to 


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Our Best Society 


pursue the inquiry. Suddenly, however, a light broke 
on my mind. “There must be a New York paper in 
the house,” I said, sitting up erect. 

“Don’t you think it would be a comfort to let one 
Sunday in our lives pass without wrestling with those 
awful sheets?” said Alice. 

But I was not to be balked. I looked for an elec- 
tric button, and a few moments later a New York 
newspaper was in my hands. I waited till the ser- 
vant had disappeared from the room. Then I seized 
the pages and hastily turned them over. At the 
top of the theatrical page I saw a row of photo- 
graphs of pretty girls. In the centre was the pretti- 
est, and on the line beneath I read these words: 
“Bessie Cartwright, of the Blumenthal and Fried- 
heim Company.” The girl had big eyes, made the 
more lustrous by thick pencilling, and hair that fell 
over the tips of her ears in old-fashioned waves. 
I studied it for a long time. 

“What is it?” said Alice, unable to restrain her 
impatience any longer. 

“It’s a photograph of the lady,” I replied. 

“Then she is an actress!” 

“A burlesque actress,” I corrected. “I remember 
now. We saw her last year at Blumenthal and 
Friedheim’s.” 

“That exquisite creature who sang and danced so 
beautifully. Oh!” 

I gave up the paper, and Alice fastened her eyes 
on the face. Then she let the sheet drop on the 
floor. Her face was pale and her eyes were wet with 
tears. 


Mrs. Henderson Meets the Situation 295 


“Alice!” I exclaimed reprovingly. “If Mrs. Hen- 
derson were to come in here she ’d think we had been 
having a quarrel.” 

“It’s too awful!” Alice went on. 

“Now, my dear,” I said, “you’re simply jumping 
at conclusions, as you ’re always doing. There ’s prob- 
ably nothing in it.” But I saw that my words 
might just as well have been left unspoken. 

We heard a soft step on the stairs and the rustle of 
drapery; we were becoming familiar with those 
sounds. “Albert,” we heard Mrs. Henderson say, 
“I wish you would call up Tuxedo for me,” and she 
gave a number. The man went to the telephone in 
the hall and, by the silence, we knew that Mrs. Hen- 
derson was waiting. 

“We ought to get out of the way,” Alice whis- 
pered, but timidity kept her in her seat. 

“We ’ll go as soon as she’s sent the message,” I 
replied. “It’s probably the doctor.” 

Alice’s look suggested that she knew better. She 
rose and started to leave the room; but at that in- 
stant Mrs. Henderson rapturously exclaimed into the 
telephone: “Is that you, Nina? It’s Flossie. I 
have some news for you. Letty and Theodore 
Markoe are engaged. You’re the first person I’ve 
told.” Alice turned to me with an expression of 
amusement in her eyes. Then she tiptoed back to 
her seat, making a sign to me to be silent. Her lips 
moved slowly, without uttering a sound, and I read 
this message: “She’s forgotten all about us.” 

I did not dare to trust my .lips; but in desperate 
pantomime I indicated that we ought at once to 


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Our Best Society 


make our presence felt or we should surely be de- 
tected. Alice waved me into obedience. 

“It is nice, isn’t it? We’re all so pleased, and 
Letty! I wish you could see her. ... So you’ve 
heard about the accident. I supposed you’d hear 
from Clara Eustace. ... It has all been dreadful. 
But it ’s turned out so well that we ’re thankful. And, 
oh! Nina, don’t tell a soul, will you? . . . Yes, 

they’re here. Are n’t they dears? They’re such a 
comfort. We’re going to try to keep them with us 
for a while. I simply had to let you know, Nina. 
Good-bye, dear.” 

We listened apprehensively, expecting Mrs. Hen- 
derson to enter the room ; instead, she remained at the 
telephone and asked for a New York number. I threw 
out both hands in despairing reproach. Alice sat mo- 
tionless with a look of divine patience in her face. Al- 
most word for word the message to Mrs. Van Zandt was 
repeated, with the statement emphasised that no one 
else had been told and the news must be kept secret. 

For the first time Alice began to show alarm. She 
appealed to me, and I made a sign which plainly said: 
“ I warned you! ” 

Mrs. Henderson called up a second New York num- 
ber; but the person she asked for was evidently not 
at home. Then she called Cedarhurst. For a third 
time she gave her message of confidence, and at 
the end of her talk she stood at the telephone for a 
long time. I decided that Albert had probably with- 
drawn and she was looking up a number in the tele- 
phone book. The next call was for New York and in 
her own voice. 


Mrs. Henderson Meets the Situation 297 


“Is Miss Balch there?” 

A long silence followed. 

“Where does she live? Yes, where?” . . . 

“ Oh, yes. Thank you. Do you know whether she 
has a telephone number? What did you say? The 
Washington apartments. Oh, yes. Thank you. I ’ll 
look in the book.” 

For at least ten minutes that poor woman struggled 
with the telephone. I felt exhausted for her, and yet, 
somehow, I had an impish desire to applaud her per- 
sistence. She was plainly used to achieving what 
she undertook. At last she was rewarded. 

“Oh, dear Miss Balch! Is that you? It’s Mrs. 
Henderson. What’s that? Oh, yes. I’m quite 
well, thank you. This is just to give you a bit of 
news. You know, I promised to help you when I 
could, and I am so sorry I have n’t had a chance to 
do anything for you lately. I really have n’t been 
about much. I’ve been keeping quiet on account of 
my girl, Letty, you know. You met Letty at the 
Bentleys’, I remember. Well, dear, she’s engaged to 
Theodore Markoe. You know Theodore, of course, 
and you know all about the Markoes. I wanted you 
to know first, dear, so that you should have it for 
yourself. It must get into the newspapers, and I 
knew that I could rely on your taste. Besides, it’s 
such a pleasure to be able to do even a little thing 
for you, dear.” 

Alice lifted both her hands, her eyes big. 

At that moment Mrs. Henderson walked from the 
telephone and hesitated just outside the door. We 
did not move. Very slowly the rustling began again, 


298 


Our Best Society 


and we heard that soft footstep on the stairs. We did 
not begin to breathe easily till it died away. 

“She ought to have been a general,” said Alice. 
“New York, Tuxedo, and Cedarhurst. By to-night 
every one will know.” 

“ But why Cedarhurst ?” 

“Because a lot of the hunting people are there, — 
friends of Teddy’s.” 

By closing the door we made ourselves feel that we 
could talk in safety. Alice hesitated, plainly on the 
defensive and expecting me to speak first. 

“Well?” she finally queried. 

I sighed. 

“It seems to me a very happy arrangement for 
every one,” she went on with an air of challenge. As 
I remained silent, she said: “Don’t you think that 
Letty will be happy?” 

“No!” I replied. 

“Why not?” As I took more time to consider the 
question than her patience would allow, she became 
more specific: “Don’t you think she loves him?” 

“I don’t know whether she does or not. That 
consideration won’t affect the result. He ’ll tire of 
her anyway.” 

“Ned!” Alice exclaimed, shocked. 

“I ’ll give them a year — to be generous. Then 
he ’ll go back to Bessie Cartwright or some one else.” 

“But he ’s reformed. He ’s begun over again.” 

“There ’s no such thing as beginning over again. 
Life is all of a piece.” 

“Ned, if I believed that, I ’d leave you. Letty is 
going to make a new man of him.” 


Mrs. Henderson Meets the Situation 299 

I uttered an exclamation of impatience. 

“Don’t you believe a woman can change a man?” 
Alice asked, with tears in her voice. 

“Not a man like Teddy. You can’t change the 
habits of a lifetime.” 

“Well, I think it ’s awful of you to talk like that, 
Ned,” said Alice, and I perceived that she was really 
hurt. I had touched one of the points in which a 
woman is most proud and sensitive, the influence for 
good of her sex over Man. 

“Then she ’ll be dreadfully fooled,” said Alice, as 
if taking a grim comfort from Teddy’s imperviousness. 
“That ’s why she ’s marrying him.” Reading doubt 
in my face, she went on: “You certainly don’t dis- 
pute that.” 

“She may have that conceited notion,” I ac- 
knowledged, expecting to be rebuked. But Alice was 
too serious to adopt that method of retaliation. “ So 
few girls escape it! But, in my opinion, she thinks 
she cares for him.” 

“Thinks?” Alice repeated, satirically. 

“They ’ve persuaded her — the father and mother. 
They made her fix her attention on Teddy. At first 
she was repelled, or she thought she was. Then, as 
she realised how necessary the marriage was, the idea 
grew more ” 

“Hateful,” Alice interposed. 

“Possibly. But there is n’t such a wide difference 
between hate and love, you know. At any rate, she 
became used to the idea of associating Teddy with 
herself and the experiences of last night did the rest 
of the work.” 


300 


Our Best Society 

“If he ’s kind to her, she ’ll make a good, loving 
wife,’’ Alice stoutly exclaimed, but with tears in 
her eyes, and I had not the heart to pursue the dis- 
cussion. It was painful to think of any woman 
being grateful for mere kindness on the part of her 
husband. 


CHAPTER XXI 


TEDDY MAKES ANOTHER APPEAL 

LICE and I seized the chance to escape to our 



I \ apartment, and we both had a little nap. When 
we went down-stairs again we found Monty drinking 
tea with Mrs. Henderson. The boy explained that he 
had decided not to go to town after all, and Mrs. 
Henderson announced that Letty would come down 
to dinner, and that after dinner we were all to be 
admitted into the room of the invalid. She spoke in 
the tone employed by kind women in dealing with 
children about to be rewarded for good behaviour. 
It was pathetic to see her determination to be kind 
to every one. 

At seven o’clock Letty appeared, looking — I hon- 
estly believe that I do not exaggerate — like a celestial 
presence. She wore a simple white muslin gown and 
her face was very pale ; her eyes shone as I have seen 
eyes shine in pictures of Joan of Arc. I saw Monty 
look at her as if he were meeting her for the first time. 
He seemed bewildered, and he walked beside the girl 
to the dinner-table like one in a dream; during the 
whole meal, discouraged possibly by Mr. Henderson’s 
expansive utterances, he did not make one flippant 
remark. 

It was announced that coffee would be served in 


301 


302 


Our Best Society 


Teddy’s bedroom, and we went there straight from 
the table. Teddy, in a padded robe of wine-coloured 
silk that made him look like a sick schoolboy, lay 
propped and bandaged among the pillows. Those of 
his features that we could perceive gave suggestions 
of a deathly pallour. And yet I had never seen him 
look so attractive. Perhaps it was his faint, slow 
smile that made him pathetic, perhaps the little break 
in his voice. He had plainly passed through an or- 
deal terrible even to his hardened spirit. In response 
to our congratulations, he squeezed our hands, and he 
tried to meet Monty’s rather forced railleries with 
patient good-humour. If, in the innermost recesses 
of my mind, I had been base enough to wonder 
whether he had deliberately taken advantage of his 
condition to press his suit with Letty, I repented, and 
I was glad when, after a quarter of an hour, we all 
started to leave the room. As I was about to step 
into the hall, Mrs. Henderson touched me lightly on 
the arm. 

“Theodore would like to speak to you,” she whis- 
pered. 

I turned back, and the door closed on the others, 
leaving me alone with the invalid. With his eyes he 
motioned me to come toward him. He moved 
slightly so that I could sit beside him on the bed. 

“ I want to ask a favour,” he said in a hoarse voice. 
“You and your wife. I want you to stay here with 
my girl for a little while — just a few days. Will 
you?” 

It was so hard for him to speak that, in conscience, 
I could not have opposed his request ; but I felt my 


Teddy Makes Another Appeal 303 

spirits going down at the thought of being cut off 
from escape with Alice the next day. 

“I’ll speak to my wife,” I said. “I think that 
she would be ” 

“You can do your work here, can’t you?” Teddy 
whispered. 

“Oh, yes,” I replied, and inwardly I groaned at 
the thought of forcing myself to write in those strange 
surroundings. At that moment I loved our little 
apartment as I had never loved it before. 

“Your wife’s a brick,” Teddy went on. “She’s 
been good to my girl. And I’m going to be — I’m 
going to be a different man.” 

I pressed his hand, as men on the stage do with 
each other in times of emotion. I felt silly and 
ashamed. I spoke up in a strong, manly voice, in the 
cheery tone that I should think invalids would hate: 

“Oh, you’re going to be all right in a day or two. 
Then you won’t want us around. We’ll simply be in 
the way.” 

In this observation Teddy did not seem interested. 
Again I had the sense that he so often inspired in me 
of being silently rebuked. 

“The great thing is not to let that mother and 
father of hers bore her to death,” Teddy went on, his 
voice growing more raucous. “They can’t let her 
alone one minute in the day. And it will be specially 
hard for her here for the next few days.” 

This remark took all the pathos out of our inter- 
view. I rose slowly. “I’ll speak to my wife,” I 
said, and Teddy replied: “Letty will tell me what 
she says.” Then I left the room. 


304 


Our Best Society 


As soon as I could get a word with Alice, I re- 
hearsed the interview. She listened patiently till I 
had given all the details. Then she said: “Letty 
told me while you were in there with him, and she 
implored me to stay till the middle of the week. I 
don’t see how we can desert her.” 

As there were people near by, I could not explode. 

“ But how about the apartment ? ” I said. “ There ’s 
no knowing what Mary will do.” 

Alice had a reply ready: “To-morrow she’ll wash 
and on Tuesday she ’ll do her ironing. She ’ll be glad 
that we ’re out of the way. And she ’ll have a beauti- 
ful time all day long drinking tea strong enough to 
kill her.” 

“Tea!” I sceptically exclaimed. 

“And on Wednesday we’ll be back there. We’ll 
take an early train. Meanwhile I’ll telephone her 
twice a day. You know she often runs out to the 
drug-store to answer telephone calls for us.” 

“If you decide to stay,” I said with authority, “I 
will go up to town to-morrow and come down in the 
afternoon.” 

“All right, Ned, dear,” Alice sweetly replied. 
“That will be very nice. Then you can bring the 
play down and get some work done.” 

The reference to the play made me long to attack 
it again. It seemed as if I had last worked on it in 
another life. While Alice was engaged with Letty 
and while Monty and Mrs. Henderson were desecrat- 
ing the Sabbath by playing cribbage, I stole up- 
stairs and began to pace the floor and to plan scenes. 
The afternoon nap had refreshed me and given my 


Teddy Makes Another Appeal 305 


mind an activity unwonted at that time of the even- 
ing. When Alice came up, I had written several 
pages. 

“Now you won’t sleep all night,’’ she said, “and 
you needed the rest after last night.’’ 

I was too cheerful in the consciousness of work ac- 
complished to pursue an argument. Those two 
scenes contained the best speeches I had yet been 
able to devise for Lily Valentine. 

“Go down-stairs and eat something,’’ Alice com- 
manded. “That absurd Monty is feasting on some 
chicken salad and milk. He is just getting round to 
be like himself again.’’ 

“By the way,” I said, “what’s the matter with 
Monty?” 

Alice smiled. “So you’ve noticed. He is only 
just realising Letty’s value — now that she ’s out of the 
market. I ’ve seen that sort of thing happen dozens 
of times. It ’s just like men to appreciate what they 
can’t get.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


MONTY GROWS REMINISCENT 

I FOUND Monty in front of the fireplace in the big 
living-room, his feet on the fender and a plate of 
chicken salad and a big glass pitcher of creamy milk 
on a little table by his side. In his lap lay the New 
York newspaper that Alice and I had been looking 
at, and from the upper page gleamed the lustrous 
eyes of Bessie Cartwright. 

Monty held up the paper and pointed to the photo- 
graph. “Say !” he exclaimed. “ Ain’t she a peach?” 

“She’s a very pretty girl,” I replied, feeling eighty 
years old. I wondered if, as a boy, I ever gave my 
elders the uncomfortable feeling with which Monty 
invariably inspired me. 

“Which do you think is the prettier, Bessie Cart- 
wright or Letty Henderson?” 

“They’re rather different types, are n’t they?” 
“Well, rather!” Monty’s tone made me long to 
hurl him out of the window. “But she’s an awful 
nice little girl, Bessie is, quiet as a mouse until she 
gets a little too much champagne into her.” 

Of course, I ought to have rebuked him then and 
there and silenced him ; I believe I should have made 
some stinging remark if he had not rushed to the 
electric bell and summoned a servant. 

306 


Monty Grows Reminiscent 307 


“You want something to drink, of course,” he said. 
“I beg your pardon. I suppose I ought to take 
Teddy’s place while nobody else is around. Have a 
high-ball, won’t you?” 

When the servant came I asked for some cold 
chicken and beer, and for a half-hour Monty and I 
munched together. “I have to eat five times a day 
by the doctor’s orders,” the boy genially remarked, 
glancing at his empty plate and then helping himself 
to my chicken. “Just now I’m two meals behind. 
But I ’ll eat again before I go to bed.” 

“It’s pretty nearly bedtime now, is n’t it?” I 
said. 

“Oh, I never go to bed before one or two o’clock. 
I intend to sit here and read and smoke.” He sank 
back lazily, and between his outstretched legs he 
drew a chair toward him and rested his feet on it. 
“I often drink five quarts of milk a day,” he said, in 
the tone of one announcing a brilliant achievement. 
As I made no comment, Monty went on: “ If I did n’t 
drink milk, I ’d be down in the ground by this time. 
I can’t stand racketing as most fellows do. Now 
there’s Teddy, he actually grows fat on it. I’ve 
known him to sit up for three nights in succession 
playing bridge without once hitting the bed. And, 
gee! but Teddy’s game. At Billy Fiske’s one night — 
you know about Billy Fiske’s, of course; the big 
gambling-house that they’ve closed up lately — well, 
Teddy started in one night to play for big stakes. At 
three o’clock in the morning he was nearly eighty 
thousand dollars behind the game. We tried to drag 
him away from the tables ; but he would n’t budge. 


3°8 


Our Best Society 


He stuck to that table till eleven o’clock the next 
morning.” 

‘‘How much had he lost by that time?” I said, 
trying not to look incredulous. 

Monty jumped up in his seat, letting his legs drop 
to the floor. “ He was thirty thousand dollars to the 
good,” he replied in a loud voice. 

I glanced apprehensively toward the hall. 

“Oh, they’ve all gone to bed,” said Monty, reas- 
suringly; but I nevertheless took the precaution to 
close the door. 

“Well, I was scared blue that time,” Monty went 
on, putting his feet back on the chair. “ I knew that 
he would n’t leave that table till his luck turned or 
he ’d lost everything he had. And then I knew what 
would happen. He’d have blown his brains out,” 
the boy concluded in an awe-inspiring tone. 

I came near making a remark out of harmony with 
the impressiveness of the moment. 

“Well, lucky at cards!” Monty suddenly burst 
into a laugh. “But Teddy seems to be lucky at 
everything.” 

‘ ‘ Except automobiling. ’ ’ 

“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ve seen him laid out on 
the polo-field dozens of times. You can’t kill Teddy 
that way. But I never thought he’d settle down. 
I thought Bessie Cartwright had him cinched. But 
I guess that old battle-axe, Mrs. Henderson, smashed 
that little affair all right. My! but she’s keen. 
What she does n’t know!” 

I am uncertain whether it was virtue or the neces- 
sity of seeming virtuous at the moment that made 


Monty Grows Reminiscent 309 


me rise and leave the room. “I’m going to take an 
early train,” I said, as a pretext. 

“Then I’ll go up with you,” Monty replied, uncon- 
scious of being snubbed. 

Alice was asleep, and for a long time I sat in the 
dressing-room, beside the open window, taking deep 
draughts of the cold air and inviting pneumonia. In 
the moonlight stretched the farm-buildings, and be- 
tween the trees I could catch glimpses of the winding 
white road. I felt a painful disgust with life. What 
did it mean, I kept asking myself, to be decent ? Was 
it merely a matter of chance, of environment, of preju- 
dice? Was there no such thing as honour in the 
nature of the average man? Did the possession of 
wealth mean that a man was made free to follow his 
own inclinations, no matter what the cost might be to 
others? Were those men who kept straight merely 
restrained by circumstances? Would all men with 
opportunities for doing as they pleased use them as 
Teddy Markoe did? Then I felt ashamed of my 
moralisings and, yawning, I closed the window. The 
best I could do was not to interfere, even in imagina- 
tion, with the affairs of other people. So I decided 
the most reasonable course was not to say anything 
to Alice about Bessie Cartwright. 

The next morning Monty, in spite of his engage- 
ment with me, did not appear at breakfast, and I 
started off to town alone. On reaching the apart- 
ment I found Mary busily engaged with the washing. 
She greeted me with an enthusiasm that made me 
think she had been lonely. The apartment looked 
marvellously fresh, and the steam-heated air con- 


3io 


Our Best Society 


veyed no suggestion of the scene Mary had given us 
a week before. I dishonestly explained that Alice 
would not return till the next day, possibly till Wed- 
nesday morning, and Mary looked so ugly that I 
hastened to explain that the chances were in favour 
of Alice’s coming soon after luncheon on Tuesday. 
“But if we don’t get here till evening,” I said, “you 
need n’t wait for us.” 

“Shall I have dinner ready, sir?” Mary asked, and 
I thought I perceived a gleam of suspicion in her eye. 

“Don’t unless I telephone, Mary,” I replied, and I 
turned away to avoid further scrutiny. 

Mary wiped her hands in her apron. “There’s a 
lady wanted ye on the telephone this mornin’,” she 
said, giving me a severe look. “She told me to tell 
you to call her up.” 

“Me? Not Mrs. Foster?” 

“No, you, sir,” Mary replied, with sternness in her 
voice and manner. “ ’T is you the lady wants.” She 
went to the closet and from a teacup she took out a 
soiled piece of newspaper. 

I read the number and slipped the paper in my 
pocket. It must be Lily Valentine, I reflected, and I 
thrilled with alarm at the thought. What further 
restrictions was she going to impose on me? “All 
right, Mary,” I said cheerfully, and, hurrying to the 
study, I seized the manuscript sheets of the play, 
thrust them into my pocket, and dashed to the hall- 
door. 

“Will yer be back for lunch, sir?” Mary called out. 

I stopped long enough to explain that I should lunch 
uptown, and then I closed the door between us. As 


Monty Grows Reminiscent 311 


I ran down the stairs I could see Mary peering down 
over the bannister. From the street I looked up at 
the apartment, to take a farewell glance, and, to my 
astonishment, from one of the front windows I was 
again greeted with a vision of those Irish features, 
which instantly vanished. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


OUR PLAY MARCHES 


T the drug-store I called up the number on the 



M slip of paper, and presently I was talking with 
Lily Valentine. 

“Oh, Mr. Dramatist, I’ve been waiting round for 
you for nearly two hours. Something terrible has 
happened and you must come up here at once. Can’t 
you take me out to luncheon? Then we sha’n’t be 
interrupted. We’ll go to some quiet place. The 
missus won’t object, will she? Then do come quick. 
Come in a cab. I’ll be waiting for you.’’ 

For economy I walked to Sixth Avenue, and I rode 
to the neighbourhood of Miss Valentine’s house in a 
street-car. Then I secured a cab and drove up with 
a flourish. As the cab trembled in front of the house 
Miss Valentine came tearing down the steps. 

“Let’s go to Werner’s on Broadway. There’s no 
one there at this time,” she said, and she gave in- 
structions to the driver. I helped her into the 
vehicle and sat beside her. “I suppose you think 
I ’m crazy ; but when I want to do a thing I must do 
it right off. But you are a dear, to come up so 
quickly. I suppose you were glad to get away from 
the lovers, were n’t you? Holbrook has put his foot 


Our Play Marches 


30 


down, and he says we can’t wait till you’ve finished 
your piece. He says we must put something into 
rehearsal at once, and he has a melodrama that he 
wants me to try. A melodrama! Think of it. Is n’t 
it awful? Oh, you needn’t laugh! I’m heart- 
broken, really!” Two little tears trembled at the 
corner of Lily Valentine’s eyes. “ People think I have 
a beautiful time,” the actress resumed after a brief 
interval of pouting. “They have no idea of the 
ennuis I ’m obliged to endure. I shall simply die if I 
have to go into that melodrama.” 

“Suppose we wait till we reach the restaurant,” I 
suggested. “Then we can discuss the situation 
quietly.” 

Miss Valentine maintained a resentful silence till 
we had settled ourselves at the table. “Now get me 
a cocktail and order something that won’t make me 
fat. Some oysters and some — some — well, a bird. 
Quail, that ’s what I want — quail. Oh, we must have 
a high-ball with the lunch. There! How does that 
suit you?” She leaned forward till her face nearly 
touched mine, and she rested both hands on the edge 
of the table. “You really must finish that play this 
week,” she announced. 

“Impossible!” I exclaimed. 

“Nothing is impossible. Nothing, nothing, noth- 
ing! People used to think my career was impossible, 
— my family, for instance. But I knew better. They 
said I could n’t act. So did the critics at first. But 
I knew I could learn. And I’m learning. Now how 
much have you done? Tell me exactly.” 

While I explained, she listened, her blazing eyes 


Our Best Society 


3H 

seeming to burn into my face. “Where is the manu- 
script of the first act?” she said. 

“ In my pocket.” 

“Produce it and read it to me.” 

Instinctively I glanced over the room, shining with 
mirrors and linen. “ Never mind those people. Who 
cares for the canaille f ” 

“But, Miss Valentine!” I protested. 

“Read!” she commanded. 

There was nothing to do but obey. Her eyes kept 
moving excitedly. She was evidently thinking of 
the way the scenes would work out on the stage. 
When I had finished she said, in a voice of concession: 

“Too talky, but good curtain.” In her face ap- 
peared a look of tragic apprehension. “ Do you think 
you can live up to that act? The play must go up, 
up, up to the climax! And then, you must gather all 
the threads you leave at the close of the third act, 
wind them together tightly at the close, and send the 
people to their nice, deadly, bourgeois homes perfectly 
happy. And, of course,” she added warningly, 
“you’re going to change that entrance. You can do 
that right here, after we eat.” 

The appearance of the waiter interrupted our talk 
about business. “I’m ravenously hungry,” said 
Miss Valentine. “I had so many things to do, I for- 
got to take breakfast.” 

“You’ll kill yourself if you don’t look out,” I re- 
monstrated. I noticed that her face had an alabaster 
pallor. 

“Well, now let’s eat and keep up our strength. 
We ’ll need it during the next few weeks. On Sunday 


Our Play .Marches 315 

night we leave for Scranton, and we play Pennsyl- 
vania towns for three nights. Then we go to New 
York State, and we play places there like Syra- 
cuse and Utica until the end of the week. And then, 
oh, blessed relief! We come to Harlem for a week. 
Now my idea is to put the piece into rehearsal while 
we’re in Harlem.” 

“And after Harlem, what?” I asked. 

“Ugh! We make an awful jump — ’way out to 
Dayton, Ohio. Oh, those booking-people will simply 
drive me to drink! Another week of one-night 
stands. But after that week, there’ll be open time 
in New York and we’ll have a chance to get it. 
Hurrah!” Miss Valentine threw her napkin into the 
air, and then became overwhelmed with confusion, 
her pale face growing crimson. She pressed the nap- 
kin against her mouth and she went on in a muffled 
voice: “Now, Ohio will give us a chance to try the 
piece on the dog. There ’ll be a new dog every night. 
Of course, you’ll see a lot of things that you’ll want 
to change.” 

“And I can make the changes on the train,” I said, 
in gentle reproach. 

The actress laughed with hysterical glee. “You’ll 
learn for the first time in your life what real work is. 
But, honest, you’ll have a good deal of time to your- 
self. Some of the jumps won’t be more than three or 
four hours at the most, and when we have a long 
jump we’ll make it at night. So then you’ll have a 
whole day for writing, except,” she added, “the time 
you give to rehearsing at the theatre. During the 
day -jumps we can rehearse on the train. I just love 


316 


Our Best Society 


that. It makes me forget about travelling, and it’s 
so nice to do two things at once.” 

I reflected that if many plays were produced under 
such conditions it was not surprising that so few had 
any merit. 

“ Ah, I know what you’re thinking of ! ” Miss Valen- 
tine exclaimed with startling insight. “You authors 
are all alike. You think you can’t write unless you ’re 
living in luxurious ease. That’s why it takes most 
authors such a long time to get anything done. Talk 
about lazy actors! We’re busy bees compared with 
you Sybarites! But now, to get back to business. 
Can you let me have the whole manuscript in a week ? ” 

“ I cannot.” 

“You mean you won’t!” Miss Valentine exclaimed. 

“Now it’s to my interest to get that play done as 
fast as I can,” I resumed, and I tried to keep my voice 
from sounding angry. “ But if you drive me too hard 
I shall get nervous and excited about it and the result 
will be, I feel certain, very unsatisfactory to you.” 

Once more Miss Valentine’s eyes filled with tears. 

“Well, you need n’t be so cross with me.” 

“I don’t mean to be cross, my dear Miss Valentine. 
Now, to-night I’m going back to Markoe’s place to 
stay for ” 

Miss Valentine’s face became blank. “You’re go- 
ing to try to work down there with all those drones 
around you! Oh, it’s all up with that play! It’s 
all up with that play! I might as well make up my 
mind to cast the melodrama at once.” 

“I think I can protect myself from the influence 
of the drones,” I loftily remarked. 


Our Play Marches 


3*7 


“But it’s deadly — having those people around. 
It’s all right when you want to be amused. Oh, if I 
had to be with them every day of my life, I should — 
well, I’d run away with the coachman! I haven’t 
any respect for the girl who would n’t. Now, that 
little Teddy — he positively makes me creep. And 
after the way he’s treated Bessie Cartwright! But 
she ’s lucky to get rid of him. If you could hear the 
way she used to ridicule him behind his back. 

“Bessie Cartwright!” I repeated, aghast. “Do 
you know her?” 

Miss Valentine flushed. “Of course I do,” she re- 
plied, with an air of bravado. “She’s a very jolly 
girl. I know everybody.” She lifted her eyebrows 
and drew her lips together. “Teddy Markoe used to 
be perfectly mad over her.” 

For a long time we ate in silence. Somehow the 
talk about Bessie Cartwright had embarrassed us 
both. At last Miss Valentine raised her eyes and 
looked me square in the face. “Mind you, I don’t 
believe all those stories they tell about Bessie. They 
say the most awful things about girls on the stage. 
Besides, my experience has taught me to be very 
broad about such matters.” 

I had a recurrence of the impulse which this girl 
often gave me to laugh aloud. And yet in her world- 
liness there was pathos too. She looked so young and 
delicate for one so wise. 

“Now about the second act,” Miss Valentine 
abruptly resumed. “You have that here too, have n ’t 
you?” 

“But it’s in no condition to be read aloud,” I 


Our Best Society 


318 

replied. “The first act shaped itself; but the second 
act must be gone over.” 

“Oh, that’s always the way!” the girl groaned. 
“There ’s Walter Hart. His first acts are great. And 
then there ’s no knowing whether he ’ll keep up or go 
to smash. However — ” She assumed an expression 
of deep seriousness. “I suppose I can’t blame you 
for being like the rest of them.” Then she smiled 
roguishly and, as she sipped her coffee, she turned her 
soulful eyes on me. “You think I’m awfully diffi- 
cult, don’t you? Well, I ’m not nearly as bad as some 
actresses that you’re likely to meet before you end 
your career. Now we’ll drive down to my house, 
and while I ’m changing my gown — I ’m going to some 
teas later on — I ’ll let you make yourself comfortable 
in the library and retouch that first act. You must 
tighten up some of those speeches, by the way. 
They ’re not snappy enough. But we can fix that all 
right. Well, we’ll keep the cab and, from my house, 
we’ll drive down to the typewriter’s. I know some 
nice girls that make a specialty of typewriting plays, 
and we ’ll have the first act done right off. I ’ll have 
duplicate copies made and one of them will go in the 
mail to you to-night — with the manuscript.” 

“But why this feverish haste?” I asked. 

“Because I must have something to show Hol- 
brook at the theatre to-night — something to prove 
that you ’re actually at work. I think he ’ll like that 
first act. I shall use it to shoo off the melodrama.” 

A few minutes later I sat alone in Miss Valentine’s 
library bending over the manuscript. I made the 
changes in the entrance and ran over the whole dia^ 


Our Play Marches 


30 


logue, finding many speeches that could be con- 
densed or omitted altogether. When the actress 
returned she nodded her approval. 

“Finished? Well, you’ve been a very good boy. 
Don’t show it to me now. I can get it all much bet- 
ter by reading the manuscript. Oh, the manuscripts 
I’ve read since I’ve been a star! If I lose my eye- 
sight I ’m going to make the Dramatists’ Club support 
me for the rest of my life.” 

We returned to the cab and swept down the street 
toward Broadway, bumping over the tracks in Sixth 
Avenue. “Do you know,” Miss Valentine cried out 
in the noise, “I feel as if I had known you for years 
and years ! ” 

“That drive down Broadway drew us rather closely 
together,” I foolishly remarked. 

“Well, it will be all right if you don’t get the big 
head!” Miss Valentine exclaimed, with the air of re- 
buking me. “So many nice men become perfectly 
hateful after they ’ve had a success with a play. And 
the way they treat the actors!” 

At the typewriter’s the entrance of the actress made 
a sensation. The girls all gathered around her, smil- 
ing into her face and studying her clothes. Miss Val- 
entine gave her instructions with the air of one used 
to being obeyed, and back we went into the cab. 

“You’ve been such a nice boy to-day, that I’ll 
take you down to the ferry.” 

When I started to protest, she cut me short. “Now 
let ’s not argue. That ’s so fatiguing, and I ’m going 
to be awfully bored at those teas. You’ve been a 
dear about giving me so much time and being so 


320 


Our Best Society 


patient.” Here she rested her hand on my arm. 
“But we are going to have a good play, are n’t we? 
And you won’t let Society keep you from working. 
Promise me, won’t you, please?” 

‘‘I ’ll promise to have the second act in your hands 
this week,” I replied. “And, if I get an inspiration, 
perhaps the third too,” I recklessly added. 

“Oh, I’ll pray for you every night!” the actress 
exclaimed. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


AN UNCONVENTIONAL MEETING 

A S I was searching for change to pay for my ferry 
ticket, a breath panted behind me. 

“Oh, Mr. Foster! Do pay for me too.” 

I looked around and there stood Mrs. Eustace. 

“I never have any change in my purse, and I do 
hate this beastly ferry so. You’re going down to 
Teddy’s again, I know. I’ve been talking with 
Letty’s mother over the telephone. She implored me 
to come down to talk over the wedding-plans. Is n’t 
it exciting?” Without letting me reply, Mrs. Eus- 
tace continued: “But it’s the only decent thing I’ve 
known Teddy Markoe to do. If he had n’t engaged 
himself yesterday I’d never have spoken to him 
again.” 

“They seem very much in love,” I said; not be- 
cause I thought so, but because it sounded correct. 

Mrs. Eustace sniffed. “It’s a blessing all round. 
The Hendersons have been on everybody’s mind for 
years. It’s been positively tragic the way Flossie 
Henderson has been holding on. Now, of course, 
Teddy will be glad to give her and that precious hus- 
band of hers a good income to keep out of the way. 
Perhaps they’ll go abroad and live.” 

Having dismissed them, Mrs. Eustace returned to 


321 


322 


Our Best Society 


her own affairs. “ You were kind and discreet yester- 
day,” she said. “I’m glad to have a chance to 
thank you. Of course I know you have n’t spoken to 
any one about the matter. 

“Oh, no,” I carelessly replied. 

“It was perfectly simple,” Mrs. Eustace resumed. 
“There’s no reason in the world why I shouldn’t 
tell you, though, of course, one hates to have one’s 
affairs discussed, and it’s not like me to go about dis- 
cussing them. That ex-husband of mine has been 
derelict about my alimony. Well, I needed the 
money and I asked Mr. Cosgrave to take my diamonds 
and get it for me. He had n’t had a chance to ex- 
plain the sordid details; but he sent me the money 
by messenger yesterday. It would have been rather 
horrid if that paper had fallen into any other hands 
than yours. People are so odious.” 

I tried to maintain an air of composure, but I felt 
my face growing hot. Mrs. Eustace’s serenity made 
me appear like the one who had uttered the deceit. 
She had turned toward me with an air of frank con- 
fidence ; but I could not meet her eye. 

At the Long Island station there was great confu- 
sion : already the crowds had begun to come from the 
city. When we had taken our seats in the Pullman, 
Mrs. Eustace threw back her coat, revealing a pretty 
white lace waist with large pearl buttons. Men were 
quickly passing along the narrow aisle in search of 
their seats. One of them, a tall, athletic figure with 
light hair, a handsome face, and wearing a long auto- 
mobile coat, looked at Mrs. Eustace, flushed a deep 
crimson, and exclaimed: 


An Unconventional Meeting 323 


"Why, Sissy!” 

Mrs. Eustace had fixed her eyes on him. “Well, 
Fritz! How are you?” 

“Oh, I’m all right,” Fritz replied cheerfully, but 
with evident embarrassment. “I’ve never seen you 
looking so well.” 

“I’m not well, Fritz!” Mrs. Eustace exclaimed in 
a pathetic voice. 

“What’s the matter, Sissy?” 

“ I ’ve been making a fool of myself, as usual, that ’s 
all.” The manner in which Mrs. Eustace spoke sug- 
gested a long series of similar talks in the past, and 
the impression was confirmed by the glad laugh with 
which the words were greeted. “What have you 
been doing?” 

“ I ’m a slave. From morning till this time in the af- 
ternoon , Sissy . No more days off ! Booze, cigarettes — 
all cut out. Things are going great, too. We’ve nearly 
doubled the business in the past year and a half.” 

“Oh, how splendid!” Mrs. Eustace spoke with 
feverish enthusiasm. 

Fritz looked down at her, smiling brightly. 

“Where are you going now?” said Mrs. Eustace in 
a tone almost wistful. 

“To the Goddard’s, to their place in Tillbury. 
I’ve been staying there since Thursday.” 

Mrs. Eustace thrust out her lips as a woman does 
when she is drawing a veil over her face. “Is Edith 
at home now?” 

“Oh, yes. She’s been at home all winter.” 

“She usually goes South,” Mrs. Eustace remarked 
in a faint voice. 


324 


Our Best Society 


Fritz lifted his eyebrows. “I haven’t heard her 
speak of going. None of them have mentioned it.” 

Mrs. Eustace looked inquiringly at an empty seat 
near us. “Are you in this car?” she asked. 

Fritz shook his head, and I noticed how sincere 
his eyes were. “Frank Goddard must be in the 
smoker. I ’m looking for him.” 

Mrs. Eustace sighed in acceptance of the statement. 
“Where are you living now?” she asked. 

“Same place — the Wentworth Apartments. They 
keep me comfortable.” 

He plainly wished to break away; but he waited 
for her to give the signal. She held out her hand 
with undisguised reluctance. He held it firmly and 
looked into her eyes. 

“Have you got everything you want, Sissy?” he 
asked. 

“Everything, thank you.” 

“Well, if you have n’t, you can write, you know.” 

She turned away with a plaintive smile. “Good- 
bye, Fritz,” she said, hardly above a whisper, and, 
with a quick glance at that empty seat, he bolted 
towards the door. 

Mrs. Eustace watched him till he disappeared. 
“That’s my ex-husband,” she said. “To think that 
we should meet like this! Ever since I came back 
from Sioux Falls I ’ve expected this meeting, and I ’ve 
been preparing for it. And now I’ve done exactly 
the reverse of what I’d planned to do! But I never, 
never thought he’d have the courage to speak to me. 
’Pon my word, I was so flabbergasted!” Mrs. Eus- 
tace looked swiftly about, apparently in search of 


An Unconventional Meeting 325 


acquaintances. Then she seemed relieved. “He is 
a good sort, after all, poor Fritz! He was very de- 
cent and fine about the whole miserable matter, and 
while I was out in that horrible hole in South Dakota, 
he used to write me the sweetest letters. He was so 
different from Sibyl Lathrop’s husband — the beast! 
Whenever Sibyl and I went out for a walk, two de- 
tectives used to stalk after us. And once, when a 
man she had known in New York happened to be 
passing through on business and sent up his card, 
Sibyl nearly fainted away with fright.” 

The train had just started, and Mrs. Eustace settled 
herself comfortably. “Well, I’m glad the Goddards 
are kind to him!” She drew up her shoulders in a 
long exhalation. “But Edith Goddard is a cat if 
there ever was one.” 

During the rest of our little journey Mrs. Eustace 
was abstracted, replying to my remarks as if she 
hardly understood them. As we started to leave the 
train, she looked about nervously and spoke in a 
loud voice, and with a sudden assumption of a marked 
English accent which I had occasionally observed in 
her speech. “I suppose there’ll be a motor to meet 
us.” 

On the platform of the station she scanned the men 
leaving the train. Then she swiftly followed me 
toward the automobile which I had recognised as be- 
longing to Teddy. 

“It’s a curious thing,” she remarked, ignoring the 
chauffeur, and plainly continuing a train of thought, 
— “association. The ties it creates, good and bad; 
but I don’t suppose they can be all good. I suppose 


3 2 6 


Our Best Society 


you two young people are very happy in your honey- 
mooning,” she went on, dropping the English accent. 

“Well, we feel like an old married couple!” I said 
with a laugh. 

“Old!” Mrs. Eustace derisively echoed. “I feel as 
if I had lived a million years. And if I were to live 
a million more,”' she announced in a matter-of-fact 
tone utterly at variance with her manner of a few 
moments before, “I’d be just as big a fool.” 

As we approached the house, Alice was standing 
on the steps of the porch. In her face I thought I 
could read both anxiety and relief. We went up- 
stairs together and at the first landing Alice turned 
into the long corridor. 

“They’ve changed our rooms,” she whispered, and 
I followed. When we had closed the door behind us, 
Alice exclaimed: “Well, I’ve had the strangest day. 
From the time you left, flowers and letters have been 
pouring in, and the telephone-bell has been ringing 
all day long. Letty has been nearly crazy with ex- 
citement. And what do you think ? They ’re planning 
to have the wedding within a month.” 

“Well, why not?” I surveyed the big room, filled 
with Colonial furniture, and I glanced into the bed- 
room adjoining. “They’re making us comfortable 
all right,” I added. 

“They ’re afraid we ’ll go,” Alice replied. “They ’re 
determined to keep us here.” 

I laughed aloud. “My dear, as a couple we must 
be charming. Or is it you they’re after?” 

“We make distraction for Letty,” Alice laconically 
replied. 


An Unconventional Meeting 327 

“I did n’t know that an engaged girl required dis- 
traction.” 

“Oh, it is very mysterious,” Alice went on, finding 
me unsympathetic. “But Monty has been a great 
comfort. He takes the whole business as the greatest 
joke in the world. He has kept Letty laughing all 
day long.” 

“And what’s Teddy been doing?” 

“He’s been in his room most of the time.” 

“Alone?” 

Alice smiled. “ Mrs. Henderson has kept him from 
being lonely.” 

I gave Alice a rapid account of my day’s doings. 

“They know here that you’re going to be awfully 
busy, Ned,” said Alice, “and they won’t mind a bit 
if you keep yourself shut up most of the time.” 

I went down to dinner determined to be cheerful. 
Teddy, bruised but unbandaged, and looking almost 
handsome in his pallor, appeared at the table and 
took the seat that Henderson had been occupying; 
it was announced that Mr. Henderson’s business had 
detained him in town. Mrs. Henderson sat opposite 
the boy, wearing one of the most ingenue frocks, and 
Letty was at Teddy’s right, flushed, bright-eyed, and, 
I thought, rather scared. Mrs. Eustace, in her rose- 
coloured dinner dress, reminded me of a great peony: 
without being really large she, somehow, suggested 
superabundance. As we bent over the oysters, some 
one, I think it was Mrs. Henderson, made an inquiry 
1 about Cosgrave, and in a flash came a reply from Mrs. 
Eustace that closed the subject. “ I don’t know any- 
thing about him.” 


328 


Our Best Society 


Then Monty piped up: “ Gee, I wish we could have 
Dick Ferris down here. We need another hand at 
Bridge. I don’t suppose we can count on you, 
Foster?” 

‘‘Perhaps you can get Dick,” Mrs. Eustace care- 
lessly replied. “ Why not call him up on the ’phone ? ” 

‘‘Oh, he’s always dining out somewhere,” said 
Monty, with a bored air. 

Nothing further was said about Ferris; but, after 
dinner, while we were drinking coffee in front of the 
fireplace in the living-room, I heard Monty at the 
telephone. A few moments later he came in and ex- 
plained that as Ferris was not at home, he had left a 
message. 

The incident seemed casual and insignificant 
enough ; but it struck me as odd that Monty should 
care whether Ferris came or not. Besides, as I went 
up-stairs, I noticed that I left behind people enough 
to make up a game of bridge. I soon forgot the epi- 
sode, however, in the thought of the work I had be- 
fore me. There was no time to be lost in pacing the 
floor or in idly contemplating my task. With an 
effort, I got my pen under way and, between intervals 
of repose, I kept it busy till Alice came up. She 
expressed astonishment at finding me still awake. 

‘‘It’s past twelve o’clock,” she said. 

‘‘What have you been doing?” I asked. 

“We played Bridge till eleven.” 

“ For money?” 

“Small stakes, dear. Hardly ” 

“How much did you lose?” 

“I won seven dollars.” 


An Unconventional Meeting 329 


I frowned. “It’s really awful, this business.” I 
felt that I ought to make the remark; though I was 
too sleepy to feel any moral qualms. 

Alice lifted her eyebrows. “But every one does 
it,” she said, making the argument with which women 
always believe themselves triumphant. 

“That makes it all the worse. I wish you’d stop 
it, dear.” 

“But, Ned, how can I without seeming hateful? 
They positively will not play without stakes. Monty 
was vexed as it was, because ” 

“Oh, damn Monty!” 

“They’ll hear you, Ned, if you are n’t careful.” 

“I supposed they’d all gone to bed.” 

“All but Letty and Monty.” 

“Letty and Monty!” I exclaimed. “Where are 
they?” 

“I left them out on the porch. It’s very mild out 
there, and the moon is shining. They’re waiting for 
Mr. Ferris. He ’s coming on the late train.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


WE FINISH OUR TASK 

T HE next morning Alice announced that she was 
going to town. “You won’t mind, dear, will 
you?” she said. 

“What for?” I said severely. 

“Well, for two reasons,” Alice hesitated, her fore- 
finger at her lips. 

“One is to confer with Mary. What’s the other?” 
Alice straightened herself up. 

“To keep an appointment with Mr. Cosgrave.” 

“ Ah! ” I breathed hard. “ Does Mrs. Eustace know 
of that appointment ? ’ ’ 

“ She ’s possibly forgotten it. She forgets every- 
thing.” 

“You know I’ve been opposed to the portrait all 
along.” 

“But he’s done so much work on it, dear.” 

I waved both hands. “ How many more sittings ? ” 
“I’ll make this the last one, Ned,” said Alice in a 
tone of concession. 

An obstacle suddenly occurred to me. “Who will 
go to the studio with you?” 

“I’ll take Mary,” Alice promptly replied. 

To keep from yielding to loneliness I worked with 
desperation. At two o’clock I ate my solitary meal 
330 


We Finish Our Task 


33 1 


with the comforting sense that I had accomplished 
three times as much as I could have done at home. 
After eating, I smoked for an hour, still thinking of 
the play and the rewards it might bring. Then I 
attacked it a second time, resolved to make a record. 
It was five o’clock when Alice appeared, and, at sight 
of her, I threw my arms around her neck and ex- 
claimed: “I’m in the fourth act. It’s coming on 
great! Everything for Lily Valentine. Hurrah for 
the house in the country! ” 

Alice was laughing and trying to disengage herself. 
“Mrs. Van Zandt will think you’re crazy!’’ she said. 

I stepped back and saw Mrs. Van Zandt’s slight 
figure in the dim light of the hall. “I beg your par- 
don,” I said. 

Mrs. Van Zandt came in smiling radiantly. “ Don’t. 
It makes me feel young again.” 

We shook hands and I felt an absurd desire to em- 
brace her too. At the moment, I loved everybody. 

“You certainly must have that house in the coun- 
try,” she said quizzically. “The country air just 
suits you. By the way, when you finish your visit 
here, why can’t you two children come to us at 
Tuxedo? I’m just going down for a month.” 

“But if things go well,” Alice interposed with a 
glance at me, “Ned won’t be near New York after a 
little. He ’ll have to be on the road, looking after his 
play.” 

Mrs. Van Zandt rested her hand on Alice’s arm. 
“Then you must come, my dear, and keep me com- 
pany while he’s away. How is that?” she asked, 
looking up at me, 


332 


Our Best Society 


“Well, if she does n’t come along too,” I said, and 
I suppose my voice sounded wistful. I had a vision 
of lonely hotels, ghastly night-trains. 

“I had to come down and see Letty,” said Mrs. 
Van Zandt. “ It was such a surprise. Do you know, 
I never even thought of such a thing, though I sus- 
pected of course, Madam had her eye on Teddy.’’ She 
lowered her voice. “But Madam has had her eye on 
so many.” Then her voice sank into a deep whisper. 
“We all thought she was fond of Monty, and we’ve 
been inviting them to our dinner-parties for two 
winters, and putting them together.” 

“But Monty could n’t see it that way,” I ventured 
to remark. 

“Apparently not,” Mrs. Van Zandt replied, with a 
little bird-like flutter. 

When she had left the room, I returned to Alice. 
“Oh, I’ve had such a day! ” Alice exclaimed. 

“Did you go to Cosgrave’s?” 

Alice curtseyed. “With Mrs. Van Zandt. I met 
her at the station. She was just coming out here. 
I explained everything.” 

“Everything!” I gasped. 

“I mean about how you felt,” Alice innocently 
replied. “It appears that most awful stories are 
going round about Cosgrave. He never pays his 
bills, and he ” 

“And Mrs. Van Zandt encouraged you to go there, 
did she?” 

“She said I might as well let him finish the 
portrait, and there was no use in antagonising 
him.” 


We Finish Our Task 


333 


I laughed scornfully. “ Antagonising him! Then 
it’s over?” 

“Yes, dear Ned, it’s over.” said Alice, flatly. She 
went on with more spirit. “We went home and 
Mary prepared a nice luncheon for us, and she said 
she was n’t lonely a bit, and we could stay as long as 
we liked.” She put her arms on both my shoulders. 
“So let’s stay till the play is done.” 

That is exactly what we did, and I look back on 
our week at Teddy Markoe’s with some astonishment. 
It may have been the place, it may have been Lily 
Valentine’s eagerness, it may have been the combina- 
tion of circumstances, or it may have been chance 
alone; but by the following Monday morning I had 
reached the end of the play. Each day I sent “copy” 
to the stenographer in New York, and, by the time we 
were ready to leave, the first three acts were type- 
written. Meanwhile Alice had protected me from 
the merrymaking that had gone on under the roof. 

We found Mary in the apartment with such a look 
of conscious innocence in her naturally indignant face 
that I at once became suspicious. But Alice, after a 
quiet glance over the rooms, assured me that all was 
well. For the next few days we saw almost no one, 
and it was a relief to be free to work. Even Mary 
seemed inspired with the importance of the time, and 
treated me with respect. She plainly approved of 
my being shut up in the house all day. Though I 
had come to an end of the play, I found I had only 
laid a foundation for future work. Scenes had to 
be re-written or transposed, or omitted altogether to 
make room for new scenes ; many of the speeches that 


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had written themselves so easily were found to be 
verbose and ineffective. Alice and I went over the 
play act by act. scene by scene, line by line, till we 
began to hate it, and I thought ruefully of the type- 
writer’s bills. By the following Saturday night we 
received a clean copy of the play and we decided not 
to look at it. 

“Let us take a day of rest,” said Alice; and I 
gladly agreed. On Sunday morning a message sum- 
moned me from bed to the telephone. I took the 
number with the promise that I should call it up in 
half an hour. 

“Lily Valentine!” I called out to Alice. “She 
must have come in by the night train.” 

Over the telephone Lily Valentine’s voice rang out 
sharply. I could almost have anticipated the words. 
“ Oh, if it is n’t good, I ’ll kill you! Come up as soon 
as you can possibly get here. Take the Elevated and 
walk across town.” 

On my return to the apartment, Alice was running 
over the first act. “It’s come out splendidly, Ned. 
It seems so clean and finished.” 

“No play is ever finished,” I grunted, determined 
not to be hopeful. 

Without stopping to take breakfast, we read in 
silence, Alice keeping one act ahead of me. The 
stenographer had done a good job. When I finished 
reading, Alice was in tears. 

“Silly!” I exclaimed; but there were tears in my 
eyes too. I hate to see Alice crying. 

“If she does n’t like it! ” Alice whispered. 

“Well, if you like it!” I said, and then we had a 


We Finish Our Task 


335 


moment of such rapture that I felt repaid for all my 
work. “What difference does it make whether she 
likes it or not?” I said. 

Lily Valentine did like it — with reservations. 

“Oh, if I’m mistaken about it, I’ll never rely on 
my own judgment again,” the actress said, when I 
had finished reading. She shook her fist at me. 
“Oh, you man! If you’ve fooled me. It may be all 
in your reading, — not that you’re such a great reader, 
you’ve missed point after point, — but you make me 
believe in it. Now I’ll get Holbrook to wire all the 
people to-day and we’ll read it aloud to them to- 
morrow. Mind you! I don’t say I ’ll put it on. Hol- 
brook must be consulted.” 

She was tremulous with excitement, and she began 
to cough violently. I looked on aghast. “Oh, don’t 
be afraid! I’m all right. It’s just my throat.” In 
a few moments she controlled herself. “There! ” she 
said angrily. “Don’t be afraid I sha’n’t be able to 
put on your old play.” She offered her hand, still 
angry, apparently with me, but really with herself, 
and I hurried away. 

The next day I read the play to a group of over- 
dressed, supercilious eccentrics, who at first treated 
me as if I were an amusing specimen brought in to 
entertain them. Their opposition caused the per- 
spiration to break out on my forehead. Slowly, how- 
ever, I could feel their interest grow, and when I had 
finished the third act, they were listening intently. 
At the close, one of them exclaimed to another under 
his breath, but loud enough for me to overhear: “ It’ll 
never go in New York. They won’t stand for her in it.” 


336 


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Holbrook rose from his seat beside Lily Valentine. 
From time to time I had seen him whisper to her. 
“We’ll give out the parts to-night,” he announced, 
and the actors dispersed into the wings. 

“They were dead against it,” said the actress, 
walking towards me and smiling. “They thought it 
was just one of my enthusiasms.” 

“Now, look here, Lily,” said Holbrook in a loud 
voice. “New York for this! We don’t want to try 
any experiments in Jaytown, and we need all the 
time we can get for rehearsing.” 

“All right, sonny,” Lily Valentine replied, evi- 
dently pleased that he was willing to do the play at 
all. Then she cried out, snapping her fingers in my 
face: “But you’ll have to come along with us just 
the same.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


LILY VALENTINE HAS TROUBLES 

D URING the next week all things not associated 
with the play seemed to recede into the back- 
ground. I virtually lived in the theatre, where I 
continually marvelled at Lily Valentine’s incessant 
activity. She devised stage-business not only for 
herself but for the other actors; she suggested new 
lines ; she even thought of a new and elaborate scene 
which I wrote in Holbrook’s office. 

I was aware that Alice was in active communica- 
tion with Society ; but for me Society had assumed a 
merely shadowy existence. Letty Henderson was to 
be married on the Thursday following our first night 
in New York; the association of this fact with my 
selfish interests impressed it on my mind. I even 
heard without emotion or resentment that Alice was 
to have another new frock. On Thursday Alice tem- 
porarily startled me into a most active consciousness 
of my surroundings by announcing that she was to go 
to Mrs. Van Zandt on Sunday afternoon. 

“Then you are n’t coming with me! ’’ 

“On one-night stands? I should simply be in the 
way, Ned.’’ 

I pondered the matter and acknowledged that she 
was right. So, on Sunday at three o’clock I saw 


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her depart for Tuxedo with Mrs. Van Zandt, who 
had come to town the day before. An hour later, I 
was in the stateroom of the car that was carrying 
Lily Valentine and her company to Dayton, Ohio. 

“Well, how do you like it so far?” the actress 
asked. 

“I feel a little dazed,” I replied, and she ex- 
claimed, apparently not hearing me: “I thought 
we’d better go over the first act on the train. No! 
I’ll tell them to study and be letter-perfect in the 
morning. I suppose I ought to go to bed early. I 
did n’t go to bed at all last night. I never do the 
night before I leave New York.” 

That week on the road! Shall I ever forget it? 
Rehearsals in strange theatres! Wretched nights in 
berths, with nightmares of steam whistles, shunting 
of trains, wild rattlings, in a shower of dust and grime. 
In the morning I used to wake up feeling a hundred 
years old. An hour later I would meet Lily Valen- 
tine, looking fresh and sweet and girlish, her eyes 
shining, her cheeks like the rose, her whole appearance 
belying the fearful cough that would suddenly rack 
her from head to foot. 

As a rule, we travelled in a special car, Miss Valen- 
tine with her maid occupying the stateroom and 
rarely stirring from it. At the hotels she invariably 
found reserved for her by the advance-man the finest 
suite to be secured. But, even with these advan- 
tages, her life was lonely. At times I pitied her. 
When she was not acting, she would sink into pro- 
found dejection. “I have to keep busy,” she ex- 
claimed to me one day on a train. “If I didn’t I 


Lily Valentine Has Troubles 339 


should die.” Wherever she went, hands were 
stretched out for “tips,” and she “tipped” most ex- 
travagantly. “What’s money for,” she would often 
say, “if not to spend?” On Saturday night, after 
two performances, we stood together on the platform 
of a railway station, and I noticed that her face 
looked white and drawn. “I suppose the old Fairy 
Godmother will pounce down on me to-morrow 
morning. I must sleep to-night and look fresh.” 

“Who’s the old Fairy Godmother?” I asked. 

“Mrs. Smith, of course. I shouldn’t wonder if 
she’d be at the station.” 

The next day we found her there, talking with 
Alice. Mrs. Smith explained that they had come up 
together from Tuxedo the night before. As I was 
greeting Alice, I heard Mrs. Smith utter an exclama- 
tion of horror. “Lily, you’re a sight. You must 
come straight home with me and get some rest.” 

“Oh, I can’t, Auntie,” the actress pouted. “I 
have a thousand things to attend to. I’m too ex- 
cited to rest. I’m going home and play the piano 
till the dress-rehearsal begins. That ’s the only thing 
that soothes me.” 

Mrs. Smith turned to Alice and me with a look of 
despair on her face. “Well, I’m going home with 
you, then,” she declared. 

“All right, come along.” 

As Alice and I rode home in a cab, we exchanged 
reminiscences. Alice had enjoyed being with Mrs. 
Van Zandt, in spite of the weary succession of dinners 
and luncheons. “All they do at the Van Zandts’ is 
eat and play Bridge. Letty came down with Teddy 


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and Monty for two days, and it was nice to have Letty. 
They seem very happy together,” she concluded. 

“The three?” I asked. 

“Oh, Monty didn’t count,” she replied indiffer- 
ently. “No one pays any attention to him. Do you 
know, he’s dependent on a sort of grand-aunt who 
gives him an allowance? His father had a failure 
years ago, and he has n’t any money.” 

“To think that we should have wasted our precious 
time on him! ” I cried with indignation. 

“ Oh, if you don’t want to hear the rest! ” said Alice; 
and with difficulty I persuaded her to go on. 

“Well, Mrs. Eustace has been at the Van Zandts’ 
too. She came on Thursday, and I left her there.” 

“Then she’s abandoned Dick Ferris?” 

“Not at all. He was at the Club. Everybody in 
Tuxedo thinks they’re engaged.” 

“The idiot!” 

“Which?” 

“Oh, they’re both idiots. They’re no more suited 
to each other! ” 

“They’re all sorry for her. They think she must 
be crazy. Of course they like Ferris — he amuses 
them so. But the idea of any one’s marrying him — 
that’s too much for them. And, by the way, Mr. 
Cosgrave ” 

“Has he been there?” I gasped. 

“No. But he’s sent me a note saying he wanted 
me to bring you to-day to see the portrait before he 
exhibits it next week. He ’s going to have an exhibit 
in his studio of his portraits of women. He’s just 
sent out the cards.” 


Lily Valentine Has Troubles 341 


“M’m ! Well, we’ll go on our way to the rehear- 
sal,” I said grimly, and for a long time we rattled on 
without speaking. “ How ’s Mary? ” 

“Everything is all right. Mary has been living on 
tea and toast ever since we left, and she looks ten 
years younger.” 

On seeing Mary, I found justification for Alice’s 
words. Her elephantine figure was clad in a freshly 
ironed calico gown, and her grotesque Irish face 
glowed with health and good humour. She received 
us with maternal affection and insisted that we should 
sit down at once and eat. On me she turned an 
amused and knowing eye. I suspected that Alice 
had been telling her about the play. 

“I’ve got me seat all bought! ” she suddenly broke 
out. 

“What seat?” I asked. 

“Fer the theayter,” said Mary, and she went off 
into a spasm of laughter. “I’m goin’ with me 
cousin from Weehawken. Me cousin always goes to 
see Lily Valentine. She think’s she’s lovely. An’ 
she has a shwate face. That’s true enough.” 

When Mary left the room Alice said: “Isn’t it 
wonderful how the theatre appeals to every one? 
Now, Mary would never think of reading one of your 
novels, Ned.” 

“Why didn’t I think to have some seats reserved 
for her?” I said. 

“Oh, well, you can let her go again some time. I 
suppose they’ll keep it on a week, anyway .” 

In the afternoon Alice and I walked up to Cos- 
grave’s studio. The painter was alone and greeted 


342 


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us with a kind of apprehensive effusiveness. It was 
a big, barn -like place, filled with faded tapestries and 
incongruous furniture and dingy hangings. In a 
perch close to the skylight I perceived the painter’s 
couch, covered with green cloth. It was typical of a 
certain phase of New York Bohemia that had always 
made me feel a little sick. On easels, and piled up 
on the floor and along the walls, were canvases, some 
in gilt and in black frames, some unframed. My eye 
rested on Alice’s portrait which had a conspicuous 
place on one of the easels and in a beautifully carved 
frame, and it was held there, astonished and de- 
lighted. I had unconsciously formed the opinion 
that Cosgrave was a mere dilettante; but there was 
Alice to the life, in a pose so true, so characteristic, 
that I marvelled at the skill that had caught and re- 
produced it. In the face, too, was the expression of 
artlessness combined with humour that I loved in 
Alice, the curious, quizzical expression. 

Alice saw that I was impressed, and she laughed 
and clapped her hands. 

“I haven’t told him how good it was!” she said 
to Cosgrave. “ I wanted him to find out for himself.” 

“It’s the best thing I’ve done,” he said in a low 
voice ; and in my delight I turned and said : 

“Well, when I get rich, I shall buy that from you.” 

“I’m not so sure I shall want to sell,” he replied. 

“Now if the play is a success you must let us buy 
it,” cried Alice. “Oh, Ned, you must send Mr. Cos- 
grave seats for to-morrow night.” 

“I will if I can get them,” I replied, and Cosgrave, 
without speaking, made a low bow. 


Lily Valentine Has Troubles 343 


We looked at the other portraits, all clever, but 
most of them superficially or insincerely treated. My 
eye wandered in vain for the portrait of Mrs. Eustace. 
As we were about to leave, however, Cosgrave changed 
the position of one of the canvases and suddenly re- 
vealed a portrait as startling in a different way as 
Alice’s had been. As if to emphasize the contrast, 
he placed the portraits together, and he looked at 
them both with a sardonic smile. It was Mrs. Eus- 
tace as I had first seen her that night at the Van 
Zandts’; in the same gown, with the expression of 
bravado in her face, emphasized into scorn and con- 
tempt, and with a look in the eyes of sensuality and 
malice. 

When we reached the street, I said: “If I were 
Mrs. Eustace’s husband or brother, I think I’d be 
tempted to murder Cosgrave.” 

“I wonder if he’ll dare to exhibit it,” said Alice; 
and we let the subject drop. 

“Now what have you done about to-morrow 
night?” I asked. “Is it all arranged?” 

“Yes, and it’s so splendid. The Van Zandts and 
Letty and Teddy and, of course, Monty, will sit in 
the box with us, and then after the performance we 
must take them out to supper. That will pay off our 
obligations beautifully. And we must ask Lily Val- 
entine too. And, I suppose,” Alice dubiously con- 
cluded, “we must ask Mr. Holbrook, too, though 
somehow I don’t care much about him.” 

“Yes, we must have Holbrook,” I said feverishly. 
“If the piece is a frost, what a ghastly supper-party 
we will be! ” 


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That night Alice and I had an early dinner and by 
seven o’clock we were in the theatre. In the dimly 
lighted lobby we met Mrs. Smith. 

“Well, I made Lily go to sleep this afternoon,’’ she 
said. “But that Jackanapes Holbrook came at five 
o’clock, and something he said to her has upset her. 
Here, dear!” She clutched my arm. “You go 
round to the dressing-room and see if you can’t cheer 
her up. Your wife and I will sit at the back of the 
theatre.” 

I walked down the dark passage leading to the 
wings. I could catch glimpses of small groups of 
people in the orchestra. On the stage wild confusion 
prevailed. An electrician directed me to the star’s 
dressing-room, and I knocked on the door. Lily Val- 
entine was there alone, weeping bitterly. 

“Why, Miss Valentine!” 

She held out her hand. “Shut the door and come 
in. What do you think? This afternoon, just as I 
was feeling fit and keen to start the rehearsal, in came 
Holbrook and actually had the nerve to ask me to 
marry him. What do you think of that?” 

“Well — ” I hesitated. It was a hard question to 
answer. “I agree with you that the proposal was 
untimely.” 

“ Untimely ! ” Miss Valentine became so indignant 
that her grief found temporary relief. “It was im- 
pertinent of him. Besides, as I told him, it’s in my 
contract that I ’m not to marry any one till the con- 
tract has expired, and that won’t be for three years 
yet. You see, he’s afraid I’ll make a big hit to- 
morrow and be tempted to break from him and go 


Lily Valentine Has Troubles 345 


with some other manager. Did you ever hear of 
such a thing? But it’s a compliment to you.” 

“To the play, you mean,” I said. 

“Of course, I meant to the play. What else do 
you suppose I meant?” 

Having delivered this squelcher, Lily Valentine 
began to cry again. 

“I don’t see why you should take it so hard, Miss 
Valentine.” 

“It’s because I’m nervous, I suppose.” She 
leaped from her seat in front of the mirror. “ I must 
stop smoking cigarettes,” she exclaimed. She ran 
her hand across her forehead with the pretty gesture 
she often used on the stage. “He’s sure the piece 
will be a ‘ go,’ and he knows what they want out there. 
That’s something, isn’t it? But what worried him 
was my getting you to do it and having a finger in the 
pie. Of course,” she added, swiftly reverting to her 
business-tone, “he does n’t get so much out of it now as 
he did. He hates to see me growing more independ- 
ent of him. He ’d begun to think that he owned me.” 

At this moment, Holbrook entered, looking de- 
bonair and handsome, as usual. On seeing the act- 
ress, he started back in genuine alarm. “ What’s the 
matter, Lily?” 

“Oh, nothing.” She turned away like a petulant 
child. Then she faced him in a fury. “Don’t you 
know I always get like this before a first night?” 

He burst into a loud peal of laughter, and, without 
a word, he shot out of the room. Miss Valentine 
dropped into her seat again and her manner once 
more became utterly listless. 


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Our Best Society 


“What a silly person! ” she said. 

I glanced into the corridor where people were pass- 
ing and re-passing in apparently endless procession. 

“ I think I ’d better get out of the way and let you 
dress.” 

I closed the door behind me and left the actress. 
For a half-hour she kept us waiting. I sat at the 
back with Alice and Mrs. Smith. The groups of 
people I had noticed, consisted chiefly of Lily Valen- 
tine’s friends, most of them actresses. At last the 
curtain went up and the rehearsal proceeded. All of 
the actors were on their mettle, and played with 
spirit; but at the end of each act Miss Valentine 
expressed dissatisfaction. Two of the acts she in- 
sisted on being repeated. It was twelve o’clock when 
the rehearsal was finished, and one o’clock when Alice 
and I reached home. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


SOME FIRST-NIGHT AGITATIONS 

W E were so tired that at ten the next morning, 
when the bell rang, we warned Mary to say 
we were not at home ; but the voice of Letty Hender- 
son caused Alice to step into the hall and confess the 
deception. The girl was very pale and she sank into 
a seat in the hall. 

“I didn’t think that you’d be here,” she said, 
looking up at me. 

“ Oh, if I ’m in the way ! ” I said. 

“No, I’m really glad you’re here, though it’s self- 
ish of me. Something has happened.” 

“What?” Alice and I exclaimed in a breath. 

Letty Henderson held up a little parcel that she car- 
ried in her hand. “This came this morning by special 
messenger. It’s some letters.” Her voice choked. 
Alice and I stood waiting. 

“They’re some letters that Miss Cartwright, that 
awful girl — well, they’re letters that Teddy wrote to 
her. I don’t know what to do. I’ve read them — 
every one. They make me — they make me want to 
— never to see Teddy again. And then, the last one, 
the one his lawyer sent to her, offering money, that 
was terrible too. I suppose she did it for revenge.” 
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Alice. 

347 


348 


Our Best Society 


“Monty knew. He might have told me,” the girl 
went on with quiet and helpless lamentation. “So 
many people must have known. My father and my 
mother — they must. Mother knows everything — 
everything horrid, I mean,” the girl concluded bit- 
terly, and she burst into tears. 

“Come, dear,” said Alice. “Come with me.” She 
drew Letty into the bedroom and closed the door. A 
half-hour later she emerged, her eyes swollen. 

“What can we do?” she said; and I was ready 
with my reply. 

“We can do nothing. She’s in a mess, and she 
must get out of it herself.” 

“Then you think she ought to get out of it. She 
came here to us for advice.” 

“But I don’t advise. I don’t advise. Now, my 
dear, you must not take on yourself ” 

“I know, Ned. But I must say something.” 

“Well, tell her to take time and think it over. 
That’s always safe.” 

“That’s exactly what I’ve done!” Alice cried in 
triumph. 

“Well, did it do any good?” 

“Any sympathy would do her good. Besides, she 
came here to get away from that old mother of hers, 
as much as anything else.” 

“To find a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.” 

“Oh, Ned, don’t be brutal!” 

“She won’t come to our box-party, now,” I said 
ruefully. 

“Well, I had n’t thought about that. I don’t be- 
lieve I’ll mention it, anyway.” 


Some First-Night Agitations 349 

“She has a sort of interest in the play, you 
know.” 

“Why, of course,” Alice cried with delight. “Per- 
haps it would rouse her to come.” 

“I’ve got to go to the theatre now, anyway. Tell 
her I’m sorry, and all that, won’t you?” 

I left the house, selfishly glad to escape, and meanly 
resentful of the emotional excitement that Alice was 
getting from the situation. In the theatre I found 
Lily Valentine scolding the property-man. For an 
hour we experimented with the lighting, and dis- 
cussed some new bits of stage-business. Suddenly a 
voice from the back of the theatre startled us. 

“Hello, Lily!” 

The soft, feminine quality at once told me that the 
dim figure was Walter Hart. 

“Oh, you mean thing! Why were n’t you in front 
last night?” 

Hart came down the steep aisle. In his hand he 
carried what looked like a magazine. “Because you 
did n’t invite me.” 

“You said you were going to help us out, and you 
have n’t been near us.” 

“Oh, Lily, if you really wanted me you’d have 
sent an invitation over the ’phone. Trust you for 
that. Anyway, I thought you’d be rehearsing this 
morning.” 

“Well, we’ve rehearsed all we intend to rehearse. 
Besides, we can get along without you.” 

Hart appealed to me. “Isn’t she the little spit- 
fire? Lily,” he went on, “I wouldn’t marry you if 
I were to be paid a million dollars a week.” 


35 ° 


Our Best Society 

“Well, you won’t get the chance.” 

“Think of having to face Lily every morning at 
breakfast. Ugh ! ” Walter Hart had one of his 
shivers. 

“Still, Wallie,” — the actress reassumed her arch 
manner, — “you’re the only man I ever really loved.” 
She raised her finger and shook it meaningly. “ He ’s 
the only man I ’ve ever made love to. Honest ! He ’s 
the only man that can resist me.” 

“And that’s why she’s shelving my play. It’s 
pique, — just pique. It’s a good thing you’re mar- 
ried, Mr. Foster.” 

Lily Valentine beamed down across the footlights. 
“Are you going to be in front to-night, Wallie?” 

“Of course I am. I intend to boo as they do in 
England. I hope you’ll have a frost. Then you’ll 
have to go back to my piece.” He threw back his 
shoulders and folded his arms. “Oh, I can see you 
crawling on your hands and knees and begging me to 
write another play for you.” 

Lily Valentine raised her hand with a threatening 
gesture. “When I crawl to you! It’s you who’ll 
crawl to me some day.” 

“Listen to her, will you? She’s going to be an 
actress-manager. So that’s the game, hey?” 

“Oh, you’re hopeless, Walter.” 

“Say,” Hart called up, “there’s something in this 
paper that will interest you two people — you society- 
trucklers.” He threw on the stage the periodical he 
had been holding in his hand, and I picked it up. 

“Look at that paragraph on the first page.” 

Miss Valentine and I walked to the single light 


Some First-Night Agitations 351 


that dissipated the darkness on the stage, and I 
looked over her shoulder and read: 

“Why is it that so many bounders and black- 
guards are tolerated in New York? Why is it that 
because a man can set up a studio in the slums and 
fill it with second-hand trappings, he can persuade a 
lot of silly women to run after him and proclaim him 
a genius? Has society become so dull that people 
must be amused at any cost? One woman, well 
known in New York and fresh from an experience in 
the divorce court that ought to have taught her a 
little discretion, has lately been paying dear for her 
folly. Everybody has been laughing at her infatua- 
tion for an impecunious artist of upper Bohemia, and, 
lately, amusement has turned to wonder at her sud- 
den cure. The explanation comes by way of a 
pawnbroker’s shop in the Bowery where many mem- 
bers of the fashionable world habitually resort. 
It appears that the lady sat to her artist-friend for a 
portrait, wearing her celebrated necklace of diamonds. 
One day she left the diamonds in the studio, and to 
secure them again she had to go in person to the 
Bowery pawnbroker, who let her have them back for 
a trifle of a few hundred dollars. Now that she has 
lost interest in her artist-friend, she has taken up 
with a popular exile from Erin’s Isle who a few years 
ago rode into society behind a pack of hounds. It is 
intimated that she actually intends to marry him. 
Meanwhile her ex-husband is about to console him- 
self in a union with the daughter of one of Long 
Island’s richest residents.” 

Lily Valentine pushed the paper away from her. 


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Our Best Society 


“ Walter, I see where you get your next play. But 
there’s no part for me in it.” 

“Always an ingemie , Lily,” Hart retorted, and he 
started up the aisle. “You can keep the paper,” he 
called out over his shoulder.” 

It was nearly three o’clock when Lily Valentine 
and I finally left the theatre. We had been too busy 
even to think of eating. 

“You’ll take a rest, I suppose?” I said, as I put 
Miss Valentine into a hansom. 

“I shall go straight home and play the piano all 
the afternoon,” she replied. 

When I reached the apartment, Alice met me in 
the hall. 

“It was nice and thoughtful of you to stay away, 
Ned. Letty has just gone.” 

I was too tired to refuse the compliment. 

“I persuaded her to tell her mother everything.” 

Here I laughed aloud. “Her mother’s known it 
all along.” 

“She doesn’t know everything,” Alice mysteri- 
ously commented. 

“Now about to-night?” I said; and Alice, seeing 
that I was on the point of working myself into a 
fever, cut me short. 

“Everything is most beautifully arranged, Ned. 
Not a detail has been forgotten. I’ve even asked 
Mrs. Smith to join us after the performance.” 

Mary went about the house all the afternoon with 
an air of defiant humour. On several occasions I had 
a savage impulse to hit her. At dinner she revelled 
in finery that might have made the fortune of a comic 


Some First-Night Agitations 353 


actress. Her appearance put me in better temper, 
and by the time we reached the theatre I was in a 
state of calm that filled me with astonishment. Letty 
Henderson came early with Teddy and Monty, and 
the Van Zandts arrived just as the curtain rang up. 
In the opposite stage-box were Mrs. Smith with Mrs. 
Eustace and Dick Ferris, and two young girls whom 
I did not recognise. In the audience, which I cov- 
ertly studied, I saw Cosgrave, using the second of 
his two seats for his overcoat. 

Of the details of the performance, I literally have 
no recollection. I only know that the whole evening 
seemed like an illusion. It was Lily Valentine’s night ; 
when the star was not on the stage the interest 
flagged, and I was remotely aware that I was con- 
gratulating myself on having kept her in the centre 
nearly all the time. Between the acts people came 
and went ; but they were all unreal. 

At the close, the audience called the actress out 
again and again, and I remember that for a few min- 
utes I stood in a blinding light. There were horrible 
cries for a speech ; but I could n’t have spoken a 
word if my life depended on it. Then there was 
darkness again, and queer painted faces laughing 
around me, and then the high voice of Walter Hart 
saying: “Lily, if I had supposed that you’d ever 
learn to act like that, I’d have married you long 
ago.” 

“Well, why don’t you do it now? I dare you.” 

Then I saw Hart go forward and kiss her painted 
lips, and everybody laughed, and I came to my 
senses. 

23 


354 


Our Best Society 


Lily Valentine grew white beneath her make-up. 
She sank into a chair. We all thought she was going 
to collapse; but she soon recovered. “She’ll simply 
kill herself,” said Mrs. Smith to me. “Now let me 
take her home. I refuse to allow her to go out to 
supper. I ’ll get Holbrook to drive us both down to 
my house.” 

In the lobby we met Mrs. Eustace and Ferris. 
They walked on with us, when suddenly we came face 
to face with Cosgrave. For an instant the painter 
hesitated ; then he came forward to speak to Alice. 
Ferris must have misunderstood the movement; he 
grew livid with rage, and, making a leap in the air, he 
struck Cosgrave with his clenched fist full in the 
mouth. As the two men were about to grapple, a 
tall, athletic figure rushed between them, and I 
recognised “Fritz” Eustace. 

“You damn fools!” he said. “Do you want to 
disgrace these women?” 

Mrs. Eustace looked as if she were about to faint. 
“Get Dick Ferris out of the way! ” she gasped. 

Cosgrave rapidly made his way through the crowd ; 
but Ferris, white with wrath, did not stir. 

“I’ll give him what he deserves, the blackguard!” 
he muttered in his richest brogue. 

“For God’s sake, let us get out of this!” Mrs. Eus- 
tace cried. 

The incident had occurred so quickly that the 
people about us had hardly grasped its significance. 
When we reached the street, a small crowd gathered 
around us. Mrs. Eustace, who was clinging to the 
arm of her former husband, turned angrily to Ferris. 


Some First-Night Agitations 355 

“Now I’m going straight home,” she said, “and I 
hope I shall never see you again, Dick Ferris. You 
are a brute and a jackass. You’ve made a public 
spectacle of me. Don’t you ever come near me. 
Fritz, get a cab as quick as you can.” 

Eustace called a hansom, and the pair were soon 
out of our sight. 

“Well, if that is n’t the limit,” said Monty. 

At the moment, I felt sorry for Ferris. He acted 
as a man does who feels that every one is against 
him. Mrs. Eustace’s words had brought him to his 
senses. He turned to Alice and Letty and began to 
make effusive apologies. I had never heard his 
tongue so thick. 

“ It seems to me the best thing for us to do is to go 
home,” said Teddy; and I inwardly applauded his 
good sense. 

“Well, I don’t see why those idiots need spoil our 
supper,” Monty protested. 

“ Oh, do let us go home ! ” Letty pleaded, and she ap- 
pealed to Alice and me. “You ’ll forgive us, won’t you?” 

Teddy looked bored and disgusted. “I tell you 
what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll drive the Fosters home 
in my carriage and Monty can take Letty home in 
the other carriage.” 

Letty looked frightened; but she did not speak. 

“That’s perfectly satisfactory to me,” said Monty, 
and a quarter of an hour later Alice and I were at 
home again. Mary had not arrived, and the place 
was in darkness. When we had lighted up and re- 
moved our wraps, we looked at each other and 
laughed. I seized Alice by both hands. 


356 


Our Best Society 


“We’re going to have the place in the country ! ’’ I 
cried; and throwing her arms around my neck Alice 
exclaimed : 

“Oh, Ned, it was worth our while to play with 
Society, was n’t it?” 

Mary presently came in, nearly beside herself with 
rapture over the night’s experience, and with quota- 
tions from her neighbours in the gallery. She found 
us something to eat and waited on me as if I were 
the descendant of an Irish king. At last I had won 
her respect ! 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A FEW SOLUTIONS 

I N the morning I found that the papers did not 
roast the play; they merely sneered at it and 
said that it was plainly written to exploit a person- 
ality popular at the moment, and, as such, served its 
purpose. It was a hard blow, but Alice and I de- 
cided that it would not seriously damage our country 
place. Then we looked for some reference to the 
trouble between Ferris and Cosgrave; but it had 
escaped mention. 

“That scandalous weekly will have it,” said Alice, 
and I added: “Yes, with a few scandalous inaccur- 
acies thrown in.” 

While we were still at breakfast, counting up our 
future royalties and planning to begin our search for 
the house that very day, the bell rang and we heard 
whisperings in the outer hall. Then Letty burst in, 
with Monty following close behind. Something in 
their appearance startled me. 

“Congratulate us!” Monty shouted at the top of 
his voice, and Letty blushed furiously. 

“We’re married! ” Monty went on, still at the top 
of his voice. 

Alice and I were speechless. We both rose from 
our seats. 


357 


358 


Our Best Society 


“Well, are n’t you going to congratulate us?” 

“When did it happen?” asked Alice, still holding 
off. 

‘ * This morning. ’ ’ Monty seemed to be bursting with 
happiness. “We arranged everything on the way 
home last night. Hurrah for Dick Ferris for giving 
us a chance to be alone together ! We stole away 
early and went over to Jersey. We have n’t had our 
wedding breakfast yet. Are n’t you going to invite 
us to eat something?” 

Then Alice melted and the two girls hugged each 
other. I offered my hand to each of them. I’m 
afraid my manner was cold. 

“Do you know,” Letty confided to me, “it was 
your example that did it — seeing you so happy to- 
gether in your simple lives ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, but we’re not going to be simple any more. 
We’re rich. Think of our play.” 

Letty laughed patiently and went on. “Monty’s 
going into the insurance business, and we’re go- 
ing to have a little flat like this one. Would n’t 
it be lovely if we could be in the same house 
together?” 

“ Oh, would n’t it ! ” I echoed, and something in my 
tone must have alarmed Alice. 

“Perhaps you can get this apartment, dear, after 
we leave. We intend to live in the country.” 

Letty looked disappointed — but for a moment 
only. “We’re going South for a few weeks,” she ex- 
plained. “That is, we’ll ask Mrs. Van Zandt to take 
us in at Tuxedo for a little while until my father and 
mother are reconciled to our marriage.” 


A Few Solutions 


359 


“And if they don’t give us their blessing,” Monty 
added loftily, “why, we can get on without it.” 

Mary, indignant at the intrusion of the bride and 
groom, and betraying by her manner that she disap- 
proved of their doings, brought on some more bacon 
and eggs. 

They stayed a long time, evidently because they 
did not know where else to go, and because they 
dreaded future events. When, finally, they left, 
Alice and I went back to the breakfast-room. I 
waited for Alice to make the first remark. 

“Poor Mrs. Henderson !” she said. 

“Do you think those two will be happy?” 

“ She ’s cared for him all along,” said Alice. “ I ’ve 
suspected it from the first.” 

“Oh! ” I exclaimed. 

“From that first dinner at the Van Zandts’,” Alice 
reiterated. “If I didn’t say so at the time, it was 
because I knew you’d laugh.” 

The play has been running for more than a year, 
and the check for royalites comes in every week, with 
a beautiful regularity. We have our little place in 
Westchester, and we are glad we moved, for we shall 
soon need more room. Since settling in the country, 
when I grow tired of working on plays and on that 
old novel that is not done yet and that I sometimes 
fear never will be done, I have amused myself by 
writing these reminiscences of a few rather unusual 
months in our lives. I kept them out of Alice’s sight 
till I approached the end. Then I let her read them. 
With some apprehension I listened to her verdict. 


360 


Our Best Society 


“It’s the most imaginative thing you’ve ever 
done, Ned.” There was a hint of sarcasm in Alice’s 
tone. 

“Why?” I asked nervously. 

“Well, in your treatment of the characters. Me, 
for instance. Alice is so different from what I really 
am.” 

“Of course,” I hastily acknowledged. “I in- 
tended ” 

“ She ’s so much cleverer ! ” 

“Ah!” 

“In her own opinion.” 

Silence followed. 

“And so much more subtle. You’ve read into my 
mind all sorts of notions and motives that never ex- 
isted there. And poor Lily Valentine! Did she really 
talk to you in that intimate way? She must have 
been in love with you, or you must have thought 
so.” 

“I never thought so!” I indignantly exclaimed. 

“You ought to have mentioned about Mrs. Eus- 
tace’s marriage.” 

“Her re-marriage, you mean. It isn’t romantic 
enough.” 

“Perhaps not. It’s so common. You read about 
that sort of thing all the time in the newspapers. 
Even when married people hate each other and tor- 
ment each other, there seems to be some sort of tie 
between them. You might have made something 
psychological about that. Of course, those two 
can’t ever be happy.” 

“I don’t know why they can’t. Sometimes, as 


A Few Solutions 361 

people grow older they profit by their mistakes and 
get a little sense.” 

Alice ignored my argument. 

“And Cosgrave’s leaving New York and going 
over to London and making a big hit, and having my 
portrait exhibited over there and reproduced in the 
magazines.” 

“Well, you know I don’t care so much about that. 
Besides, it is n’t quite moral to allow people like Cos- 
grave to have any luck in literature.” 

“They often have it in life, though,” Alice went 
on. “But oh! don’t forget about Letty’s baby, the 
dear little baby that has made her mother soften 
toward her.” 

“But people are n’t interested in babies, Alice.” 

“Aren’t they!” Alice exclaimed, and I held her 
hand tightly to show that I did not mean what I 
said. 

“We ’d better not say much about that inflated 
curmudgeon of a father,” I resumed. 

Alice’s face clouded. 

“He seems to keep up just the same,” I remarked. 

“That ’s the tragedy of it, Ned. If they would 
give up the struggle it would n’t be nearly so dis- 
tressing. How do they manage?” 

“How do thousands just like them manage?” I 
echoed. 

“And then calling the story Our Best Society. I 
don’t like the title.” 

“That’s because, dear, you haven’t stopped to 
think what it means.” 

“What does it mean?” 


362 Our Best Society 

I drew her toward me and kissed her. “Can’t you 
guess?” 

For a long time we sat close together. “It ’s 
our own society, Ned.” 

“Of course!” I exclaimed. 


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